


Narrative Casualties

by ScribeofArda



Series: Ceci n'est pas un espion [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AU where Napoleon and Illya are retired, All The Tropes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Napoleon is an arts professor in London, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arts Professor AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Does that tag count if the happy ending is technically in the next story in the series?, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I say yes, M/M, Modern Era, but only for a little bit, they're married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-07-03 10:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 82,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: They got married and walked away into the sunset. No coffins, no funeral where people stand around in black wondering which one of them is going to be next. Just a happy ending.It's rare, to walk away from the game like they have done. For it to end in any other way than facing down the barrel of a gun. They aren't meant to be playing anymore, but the stories are still there.Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. The perfect partnership. The story everyone knows. But stories take on their own life, and there is always someone listening.We’ve all heard the stories. We all know what the two of you have managed to pull off together.He believed that he could do the same, and it got him killed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New story!
> 
> For new readers, welcome! You might want to read the first part of this series for this story to make sense, but if not, then all you really need to know is that this is set in modern-day London, Napoleon and Illya have both retired from UNCLE and Napoleon teaches art history at a prestigious university, the Cortauld Institute, in central London. Gaby is now the director of UNCLE.
> 
> For readers who have been with me a while, you know the levels of angst to prepare yourselves for. It will take a while to kick in, but when it does, sorry.

The windscreen wipers are going like crazy as they drive through the London streets. The rain is lit up around the streetlamps lining the roads, individual drops catching the light like fireflies before falling to the pavement. They drive through a puddle, water arcing up from the wheels and splashing across the windscreen, and Illya rolls his eyes.

“This is why you should have let me drive,” he says dryly. “You cannot leave puddles alone.”

Napoleon’s lips quirk in a grin, and he glances over at Illya briefly as he navigates through London. “You’re too tired to drive, and I don’t want my car getting scratched.” His grin widens as he aims the car at another puddle. “Besides, don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to do this that as a kid,” he adds as water fountains up around them again.

“We don’t have puddles in Moscow,” Illya says, settling back into the passenger seat. “We have snow. You try and drive through snow, you get stuck and freeze to death in car.”

Now it’s Napoleon’s turn to roll his eyes. “I don’t know what it is with you and your conviction that it’s only ever snowing in Moscow,” he remarks. “You know I have been there, right? I do know that you have such a thing as summer, and a warm one at that.” He turns onto another street, now finally entering Marylebone, and slows down as the rain, somehow, gets even worse. “Hopefully it will let up and the garden won’t be completely ruined.”

Illya groans. “Please don’t tell me we’ve become that type of couple,” he mutters. “We just got back from stealing manuscripts from Vienna, you cannot be worried about garden.”

“You’re the one who looks after it, I’m just worrying on your behalf,” Napoleon points out, but there’s a barely concealed mirth in his eyes. He reaches over and squeezes Illya’s hand briefly. “Don’t worry, I don’t think we’re ever going to be quite a normal couple. The neighbours are already convinced we’re here to convert everyone in London to homosexual sin, and that’s without knowing about the alarming amounts of weaponry hidden about the house.”

Illya just snorts, and shakes his head. He settles back into the passenger seat of the car, and for once, is glad for Napoleon’s extravagance when he bought the car. The leather seats are so easy to sink into after days running around Vienna and casing out the museum to steal those manuscripts, and the sound of the rain drumming against the windscreen is beginning to lure him to let his eyes slip shut.

“We’re nearly home,” Napoleon says, jerking Illya from his doze. “Stop falling asleep. I’m not carrying you in if you do.”

“As if you could pick me up, Cowboy,” Illya mutters. He leans his head against the window and watches London slip past them. “You weren’t one who stayed up every night to learn guard rotations and escape routes. I did all heavy lifting on this.”

“Dropping your articles, Peril,” Napoleon reminds him, but there’s a warmth to his voice as he glances at Illya. “You do have the manuscripts, don’t you? Gaby will have our heads if we went to all this trouble to not be able to lure out some megalomaniacs.”

“They’re in the boot,” Illya replies. “And you are one forging sketches from manuscripts, not me. I won’t be in trouble if Gaby’s plan doesn’t work.”

“My forgings are impeccable,” Napoleon protests, and Illya snorts. He watches London slip past him through the rain-smeared car window, the streets slowly becoming more familiar until they’re turning down a street lined with elegant townhouses, rain running in rivulets down the edges of the road. Napoleon pulls over in front of a house and turns the car off. “Want to get the luggage out the trunk, or shall I?”

Illya is already unbuckling his seatbelt with a resigned sigh. “I’ll do it,” he says. “You’re too delicate for rain, and you’ll just complain about your fancy shoes getting wet.” He grimaces, and then opens the car door. Immediately the door is soaked, and water splashes up around his shoes as he darts around the car for the boot. Napoleon all but runs for the door, Illya grabs the luggage and the case that they put the manuscripts in, and by the time he makes it up the front steps Napoleon has disabled the various alarms. They rush inside, and the sound of driving rain tails off abruptly as Napoleon pushes the door shut behind them.

Napoleon shakes off his trench coat before he hangs it up in the hallway. “Remind me again why we live in a country with such godawful weather?” he asks as he mournfully tries to stop his hair from curling in the wet, trying to tame it in the mirror.

Illya comes up behind him, and his grin turns wolfish. “Not my fault, Cowboy,” he murmurs, and he reaches up to run a hand through the curls starting to form at the nape of Napoleon’s neck. Napoleon leans back into the touch, humming in content as Illya presses a kiss to his neck, and tilts his head to expose the long line of his throat.

“Do you have to be back in Institute tomorrow?” Illya murmurs as he presses a long line of kisses up Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon arches slightly, trying to get Illya to the sensitive spot just below his jaw, and Illya huffs a soft laugh against his skin. “Impatient,” he mutters.

“No, I just think we should celebrate,” Napoleon replies, trying to keep his voice steady as Illya’s lips sweep over his pulse point. “We did just pull off a very successful heist. And tomorrow is Sunday. I just have to mark some papers and fix a presentation for the freshers.”

Illya hums. “I need to pick up dog from Gaby,” he says. “Look at a code that she asked me to check. Recycling goes out tomorrow night as well.”

“Oh, now you’re getting to the sexy talk,” Napoleon says with a smirk. Illya nips at his neck in retaliation, but it just makes Napoleon’s smirk widen. “Go on, keep going,” he says. “Show me what you can do.” Illya’s arms wrap around his waist, and the grin on his face is wolfish.

“Put away manuscripts somewhere safe, Cowboy,” Illya says, one hand tightening on Napoleon’s hip. “And then watch me work.”

Later, much later, Ilya curls around Napoleon in bed. “You sure you can do this?” he asks softly, a hand trailing nonsensical patterns down Napoleon’s arm.

Napoleon hums, and captures Illya’s wandering hand. “Yes,” he says simply, bringing Illya’s hand up to press a kiss to the back of it. He pauses briefly. “Gaby wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.”

Of course, Illya thinks, Napoleon has worked out what is troubling him. “As much fun as these jobs are,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to go back in. Gaby is forgetting we are retired, I think, now she is director.” There are plenty of words left unspoken, how hard it was for him to walk away in the first place, how if Napoleon hadn’t been there he thinks he might not have ever made it out, but it becomes easier to swallow those words every time they appear. Napoleon was there, and he understands.

“She knows better than to try and drag you back in,” Napoleon murmurs. “And we can remind her, if we need to.” He shifts closer to Illya, sheets tangled around them. “We don’t have to take another job for a while, if you don’t want to. We have other things to do with our lives.”

Illya hums. “Get painting sorted first,” he just says.

“Oh, it’ll only take me a week or two,” Napoleon replies, his voice suddenly bright, as it always is when he talks about art. He rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow, and Illya traces a line down his arm absent-mindedly. He knows when Napoleon gets that look in his eyes, it’s best to just listen and not say anything until he’s finished. “I paged through the manuscripts a bit when you were scouting our escape, and the detail in them is incredible,” Napoleon says. “I’ll need to take it into the Institute at some point to check it against the Titian works we have there, but it should be plenty for Gaby’s plan to lure out the next batch of megalomaniacs who want to add a lost Titian to their collection.”

“Don’t start bringing your artist friends round here to help recreate it,” Illya warns him. “I don’t want to come home to half of London’s art thief underworld in my kitchen again.”

“Our kitchen,” Napoleon says slyly, just to make Illya roll his eyes. “Don’t worry, I know I’m not good enough at forging to reproduce a whole Titian from scratch, especially when the original painting has been missing for centuries.” He sighs, and falls back to the pillow. “What time is it?”

Illya rolls over to look at the alarm clock. “Nearly two in morning,” he replies. “But is Sunday. We can lie in.”

“If only the SVR could hear you now,” Napoleon mutters, pulling Illya back into the middle of the bed with a smile. “Their top agent thinking about lying in bed in the morning and not punishing himself with a six o’clock run. What has the world come to?”

“The SVR can fuck off,” Illya mutters, pushing his face into Napoleon’s shoulder. “Go to sleep, Cowboy.”

Napoleon huffs a laugh, and runs a hand through Illya’s hair as Illya relaxes against him. He turns off the bedside light with a muted click, and drapes one arm over Illya. Just as he thinks Illya has fallen asleep, he shifts against him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed statuettes, Cowboy,” Illya mutters, barely audible. “I know your suitcase was heavier than it should be. You give them back in morning.”

“What statuettes?” Napoleon asks, his own voice barely more than a whisper as the thrill of the past few days catches up with him and his eyes threaten to slip shut. He trails a hand down Illya’s back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peril.” Illya just hums, but says nothing else, and Napoleon lets himself drift off to sleep next to his husband.

0-o-0-o-0

“You would think,” Napoleon mutters, “that after two years, these students would know how to reference properly.” He groans, and scribbles on one of the many sheets of paper strewn across the kitchen table. “I swear I should just do an entire lecture course on how to write essays, rather than making them write about Modernism.”

Illya places a mug of tea in front of him, and picks up an essay. “It’s not too bad,” he says cautiously as he reads through, and Napoleon rolls his eyes.

“You stopped having a formal education at sixteen, you can hardly talk,” he says. He starts reading another essay, scribbling something in the margins in a red pen around the introduction. “Also, why isn’t this coffee?” He gestures at the mug Illya had put in front of him. “I swear I asked for coffee.”

“It is the afternoon, you had three cups this morning, if you have any more you won’t sleep tonight and then complain to me about it,” Illya says mildly. He sits down opposite him with his own mug of tea, wrapping his fingers around it, and gives Napoleon a pointed look. “You always get jumpy after job anyway. You don’t need caffeine helping you.”

Napoleon smirks, glancing up from his marking briefly. “I get jumpy?” he asks. “You were checking sightlines all morning.” Illya’s slight grimace is all the confirmation he needs, and he huffs a laugh. “And we say we’re retired.”

“You are sitting in pyjamas marking essays on Renoir,” Illya points out dryly. “I’m going over shopping list in my head and wondering if the dog needs to come in from the garden before she destroys it. We are definitely retired.” He takes a sip from his mug, frowns, and swaps his with Napoleon’s. “What time is your first lecture tomorrow?”

“Nine, I think,” Napoleon murmurs absently. “And I’ve got to sit down with Cassie in the evening to try and bash out her thesis structure, so I might be back a bit late.” He pages through another essay, and sighs at yet another poorly constructed sentence. “Here,” he says, handing the essay to Illya. “Third paragraph down. Read it and see if it actually makes any sense.”

Illya scans through it, and snorts. “I think they are trying to make point about connection of post-war economics with societal views on artists,” he says eventually. “Trying, at least.” He hands it back with a shake of his head. “Your area of expertise, not mine.”

Napoleon just hums, and keeps working as Illya wanders aimlessly around the kitchen. “Are you going into the dojo tomorrow evening?” he asks as he takes a break and scrolls through his timetable for tomorrow, blocking out a slot in the evening for going through Cassie’s thesis with her. “If so, I’ll just get takeout when I come back, no point making up something if it just ends up in the fridge because you get distracted and overrun the class by an hour again.”

Illya snorts, and pulls out his own phone. “No, Maja has slot tomorrow,” he says eventually. “I’m teaching class on Wednesday instead.” He studies his phone, a small frown creasing his forehead, and Napoleon has to resist reaching out to smooth it away.

“I still maintain that it’s-”

“A terrible business plan, I know,” Illya says, shooting Napoleon a fond look. “You know that’s not the point.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes, but he knows Illya sees through it in a moment. It had been Napoleon’s idea initially, something for Illya to do now that he’s retired and walked away from the game. He knows that there’s a constant fear lurking under Ilya’s skin, over the deep anger and scars the SVR carved into his bones, that one day he’ll miss it too much and walk back into the game. They’ve talked about it, late at night when the darkness catches their words and holds some of the weight for them, about what might cause Illya to do that, what could possibly make him walk away from all of this.

After one such night, Napoleon had stared at the ceiling for hours as Illya slept the sleep of the exhausted, tear tracks drying on his cheeks and on Napoleon’s shirt, and he’d come up with an idea. Illya now spends a good few nights every week at the dojo, running free self-defence classes for anyone who wants to turn up. Napoleon still maintains that it’s a terrible business strategy, but only so he can see Illya roll his eyes and mutter derisive things about capitalism.

If he’s honest, he couldn’t be more proud. On quiet evenings, the two of them curled up on the sofa, watching some film where Illya constantly criticises the military tactics and Napoleon plots how he’d break into every vaguely interesting building, Napoleon wonders if this is how they walk away. One small step at a time, without even realising they’re doing it, until he’s writing down thoughts on his current research whilst Illya is falling asleep on his shoulder with the film still running, still wearing the gi trousers from the dojo, their dog drooling on the carpet at their feet as she sleeps.

Now, Napoleon sips at his tea as he reads through another essay, and Illya lets the dog in from the garden as she starts whining at the back door. She immediately sticks her nose into Napoleon’s lap, and Illya admonishes her in quiet Russian that does absolutely nothing to hide the fondness in his voice. She pads over to him, and he ruffles at her ears obligingly.

A phone buzzes somewhere, and both of them immediately go for their pockets. “It’s yours,” Napoleon says as he spots Illya’s phone on the counter. Illya gets up and grabs it off the counter, shooing away Laika as he answers it.

Napoleon notices the moment that something goes wrong. Illya straightens, half turning away from him, and Napoleon can see his hand twitch, like he’s stopping it from clenching into a fist. “ _Podpolkóvnik_ ,” he says, and his voice is blank.

“Peril?” Napoleon asks softly, but Illya shakes his head and turns away from him again. It hasn’t been long enough since Illya was in active service that Napoleon can’t recognise the way he’s holding himself, the set of his shoulders and rigidity of his spine that Napoleon had learnt so well over all the years at UNCLE, chasing other spies and governments and megalomaniacs all over the world. He’s seen it in the debriefings that are too many to count, even when they’ve been bruised and exhausted, and he’s seen it every time he’s been there when Illya has answered the phone to his former handlers.

_“Da_ ,” Illya says shortly. “ _ya ponimayu_.” Napoleon watches as his hand trembles at his side, and what little he can see of Illya’s expression has shuttered off. He stays silent, sitting at the table with his work strewn out in front of him, and waits to see if anything is going to fall apart.

After what feels like a few minutes but is probably less than thirty seconds, Illya nods. “ _Da_ ,” he says again into the phone. He breathes heavily. “ _Spacibo_.”

Only when Illya has hung up and put the phone down on the kitchen counter does Napoleon speak. “Peril?” he asks softly. “Everything okay?”

Illya breathes out heavily again, and runs a hand over his face. His back is still to Napoleon, but that doesn’t matter. Napoleon thinks he could sometimes read a whole story from the set of Illya’s shoulders. “Markos is dead,” Illya says quietly.

Napoleon pauses. Somehow, that wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear. “Is that something we should be worried about, or pleased?” he asks. “With our histories, it’s difficult to tell off just a name. Especially if it’s involving any of your SVR history.”

Illya just swallows. He hasn’t turned around yet, is staring out the kitchen window, and Napoleon realises abruptly in the set of his shoulders and the way he’s standing that this isn’t a joke. He gets to his feet and crosses to stand beside Illya, tangling his fingers with his. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

“That was Oleg,” Illya just says. Napoleon had already guessed that, but he stays quiet and lets Illya say what he needs to. Illya’s voice is blank, but in the way that Napoleon knows he’s grappling to keep it that way.

Illya breathes out. “Markos was spetsnaz with me,” he says slowly. “You know my father…I was always on edges of team, even in spetsnaz, and especially at beginning. Markos was one of few who didn’t see my father when he heard my name.” He shrugs slightly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders ever so slowly, and Napoleon just squeezes his hand to let him know he’s there. “We were friends,” Illya says eventually. “Even after Oleg took me to SVR. Last I knew, he was SVR agent in Moscow. We talked only two months ago, before he left for mission in Peru and needed old contact details I still had.”

“Did Oleg say how he’d died?” Napoleon asks. “Is there a threat?” He hates that he has to ask that, that Illya tenses at the words as he slips back towards that mindset they’ve been fighting so hard to escape, but even after years out of the game, he’s still healthily paranoid.

“No threat,” Illya says. He swallows. “He was on mission, and it went wrong. Oleg didn’t want to say too much, he was breaking protocol calling me anyway, but…” He trails off, and shrugs again. “He knew we were close. He thought it better I heard from him than heard rumours through contacts.” Napoleon hums, thinking privately that Oleg always has ulterior motives for everything he does, and Illya gives him a look like he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Is there a funeral?” Napoleon asks eventually, after a few minutes of silence. Illya just nods. “Are you going to go?”

“Kremlin won’t be happy if I go back,” Illya says dryly. “But…” He trails off. “I don’t know. It is in two days, Oleg said.”

“We can get you a flight out to Moscow tomorrow morning,” Napoleon offers. “You don’t have to go, though. You don’t owe him anything, it wouldn’t be a slight against him if you weren’t at his funeral. You know that, right? You don’t owe the SVR anything.”

Illya’s lips quirk in a small self-deprecating smile, and he squeezes Napoleon’s hand. “I do,” he says simply. “And you know I do. But I should go, even if I get followed by SVR entire time.”

“You’re going to the funeral of an SVR agent,” Napoleon points out. “They won’t even need to follow you.” Illya huffs the barest of laughs, but it’s muted. Napoleon wants to comfort him, to pull him into an embrace or press a soft kiss to lips, but he knows Illya would only pull away right now. It’s taken them a long time, but they’ve learnt how to move around each other, how their broken edges fit together to make something of a home.

Now, Illya breathes out again. “Laika needs to go for walk,” he mutters. “I’ll take her around the park.” He turns away, his hand slipping from Napoleon’s grasp, and gets his coat. Laika immediately senses what’s happening and begins to dance around Illya’s feet.

Illya pauses by the door, leash in his hand. “Cowboy,” he says quietly, and he turns back to look at him in that specific way of his, that would mean nothing at all to anyone but Napoleon.

For Napoleon, it’s all that he needs, and Illya knows it. “Grab my coat, Peril,” he says. “I’ll lock up.” He grabs a set of keys, pulls on some shoes, and as Illya waits with Laika on the pavement he locks the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot starts to kick in fairly quickly, but it will take a few chapters to get to the real angst. Chapters will probably be published once or twice a week, depending on whether I remember to do it or forget.
> 
> Whilst I remember, I am [here](https://theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. It's a very disorganised blog, sorry, but I'm there if you want to come ask me about tmfu meta or complain at the angst in this story that's soon to come!
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as always, very welcome and make my day every time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the great response to this new story, I'm so happy that there are so many people excited about it! Like I said in the first chapter, it will take a little while for the angst to kick in, as the plot unfolds, so enjoy the calm whilst you still can.

Napoleon drops Illya off at Gatwick airport on the Monday morning before his lectures. “Call me when you land,” he murmurs as they stand outside the North Terminal, tugging at Illya’s hands gently to pull him closer. “I can always have a word with Gaby if the SVR get too touchy-feely about following you.”

Illya smiles slightly. “I can handle myself, Cowboy,” he replies. “It is Moscow. I still know it.” He takes his bag out of Napoleon’s hand. “I’ll call when I land,” he repeats back to him. “And I will lead SVR agents on hide and seek around Kremlin if they get too close. They will need practice, I think.” His lips curve in one of those soft smiles that Napoleon loves, and he presses a quick kiss to Napoleon’s lips. “I’ll see you in a few days, Cowboy.”

Napoleon reluctantly pulls away. “I’ll see you then, Peril,” he says. “Give Oleg my love.”

Illya snorts. “I’ll let him know you’re thinking of him,” he replies. “He’ll love it.” He glances around them, and then darts forwards to press another kiss to Napoleon’s lips, his hand sliding up to the nape of Napoleon’s neck. Napoleon slips an arm around Illya’s waist, pulling him close for a few brief seconds. When he pulls back, there’s that smile on Illya’s lips again.

“Love you, Cowboy,” he says softly.

“Love you too, Peril,” Napoleon says as he steps back. “I’ll see you soon.”

He stands by the car and watches until Illya disappears into the terminal, and then drives back across London to the Institute. He has a job to do, even if he’d much rather be on a plane with Illya right now, and he has students to teach.

There’s a lecture hall full of freshers waiting to be scared by Modernism when he gets into the Institute, and then a small group of final years that he’s meeting in the Tate Britain for a workshop. It isn’t until near lunchtime that Napoleon actually makes it into his office, and he lets himself have a few minutes before reviewing the essays his workshop group submitted this morning.

He pulls the stolen manuscripts out from their hiding place, a false bottom in one of his desk draws that opens like a Chinese puzzle box, and spends a few minutes carefully paging through them. The thrill of the heist is still there, the satisfaction in a job well done, but with Illya currently on a plane to Moscow, it’s muted.

Napoleon can’t quite be sure if he’s glad of that or not. Illya isn’t the only one worried about what would make him walk back into the game, and Napoleon knows just how alluring the job can become, how addicting it is to want to be the best art thief in the world. He’s pretty sure that he would never walk away from Illya and back into that world, where trust is a precious commodity that is often bartered for information and a leg up the ladder, where all the glitz and glamour does a very good job of hiding the copper tang of blood, but he’s not certain.

He’s never certain, because to be certain is to become complacent. He values his life with Illya too much to ever just assume that he’ll keep it without a fight. He was a soldier, then an art thief, and then a spy. He knows better than to think that something as valuable as Illya is to him is easy to keep.

He knows full well, staring at the manuscripts, that hindsight has perfect vision, but nobody ever seems to mention how easily it is rose-tinted. Even knowing how bloody his past has been, everything he did in the name of his country or for that elusive world peace or just for himself, he still can’t help but look back on some of those days with a strange nostalgia, before realising he’s doing so. A life is simpler when viewed in reverse, even one as long and as complicated as his. On the days where there’s an itch under his skin that makes him wander the Institute archives so he stays away from the Tate Britain, on the days when not even Illya can keep him grounded enough to ignore the lockpick set sitting in the drawer of the bedside table, it takes more effort than he would like to remind himself just why he isn’t running like he used to.

His phone buzzes on his desk, and Napoleon is jolted from his thoughts as he picks it up to see Gaby’s name flashing up. “Hello, darling,” he purrs as he answers. “Is the world still standing?”

“It always is,” Gaby replies, sounding amused over the phone. Napoleon remembers when she was a mechanic in Berlin, oil and grease staining her hands and a defiant, hunted look in her eye. He remembers teaching her how to properly pick a lock, introducing her to the game they’d been playing for so long. He’d made assumptions about her, they all had, cynicism coming easy to those who had so much blood on their hands in the names of other countries. He’d put her in a box, thinking he knew enough, and then she had promptly blown out the walls of the box and become better than any of them. Sometimes, she still surprises him.

For now, though, he just leans back in his chair and doesn’t stop the smile on his face as he hears her voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure, dear Gaby?” he asks. “You can’t have the manuscripts for another week, I need to check them against Titian’s works we have here at the Institute.”

“As if I would get between you and your art, Solo,” Gaby replies. “No, I was actually calling to ask you why the Russians have flagged Illya’s passport, and why something is making the FSB rather uneasy in Moscow. I’ve tried calling him, but he isn’t answering. Please tell me he’s not gone off on his own.”

“If he had, he wouldn’t be using his own passport,” Napoleon points out. “But no, this is all completely above board.”

“I’m surprised,” Gaby remarks dryly, and Napoleon barks a laugh.

“I swear on my Renoir,” he replies. “Oleg called yesterday. An old friend of his from the spetsnaz died on a mission for the SVR. Illya flew out for the funeral in Moscow this morning. He’s probably still in the air.”

“So what has the FSB all riled up?” Gaby asks. “They’re a touchy bunch in general, but there must be something.”

Napoleon shrugs, and plays idly with a pen on his desk. “A lot of SVR and spetsnaz will be in Moscow for this funeral,” he says. “From what Illya said, Markos was well-liked by a lot of agents, who will want to be there. They’re probably just getting jumpy about so many agents being in the same place as once. You know how we can get around too many of our own kind, especially if there are grudges.”

Gaby hums, and Napoleon can tell she’s not totally convinced. That’s another thing that comes from being in the game for too long. They all have a healthy dose of paranoia to accompany the things that keep them up at night. “It’ll be fine, Gaby,” he says. “Illya said he’ll mostly stay out of the way of everyone. He’s only there because he thinks he owes Markos a debt.”

“Does he?” Gaby asks. “That’s a dangerous thing to carry around at a funeral.”

“He knows,” Napoleon says mildly. “And from what he’s told me, I don’t think he’s in debt to anyone. But you know Peril. It’s going to take more than a few words from me to convince him of this.”

There’s a pause from Gaby. “Is he okay?” she asks. “I didn’t know he even kept in touch with people from his spetsnaz days.”

“They talk a few times a year, if that,” Napoleon replies. “You must have seen how it is with those army types after all this time. They never quite mange to walk away completely.” He’s learnt by now that Illya tries to keep his past firmly separate from everything, especially now that they’re retired, but his spetsnaz team are buried a little too deep for him to move on from. Every so often he’ll get a phone call at odd hours, or end up in some European country for a day or two where one of the men he served with has a few hours free. Napoleon never goes with him. He knows a lot about his past, but he doesn’t know everything, and he suspects that there will always be some things Illya will never talk about, even to him. Vulnerability is still, even after all this time, hard to intentionally bear.

“He’ll be okay, Gaby,” he says eventually. “He could probably do with hearing your voice, though. Give him a call this afternoon, his flight should have landed by then. And have one of your tech people, if they can, keep an eye out on the FSB chatter. They’re going to be pissed that Illya is back in Moscow, and I can’t promise he’ll be restrained if they try to follow him. If I were there, I would be able to do something, but there’s no way they’ll let me into Moscow on my own passport.”

“What, he won’t stop at hide and seek with them?” Gaby asks. “He loved doing that with the CIA agents who followed him when we were in New York.”

“Somehow, I don’t think he’s quite in the mood,” Napoleon replies. He remembers being with Illya in Central Park once, early on in their beginnings in UNCLE, and Illya getting that wolfish grin on his face as he spotted the tail that was on him. Napoleon had sat down on a bench and read his newspaper as Illya spent half an hour leading his tail all around the park in what was essentially a game of hide and seek that left the CIA fuming, judging by the irate phone call Waverly had gotten a few hours later.

“Markos was a friend to him when few people were,” he tells Gaby. “And he died working for the SVR, for Oleg of all people. I think it’s hit Illya hard, harder than it would have when he was an active agent. He wasn’t expecting it like we used to.”

Gaby hums. “I’ll give him a call this afternoon,” she says. “When is he back? I’ll take him out to that new restaurant in Covent Garden for lunch or something.”

“He’s back on Wednesday evening, and he could probably do with a wander around London with you,” Napoleon says honestly. He knows how much Illya loves Gaby, and though it took him a while to admit to himself, he knows he can’t be the sole person Illya confides in. Gaby knows him better than anyone else, excluding Napoleon himself, and Napoleon knows, more importantly, that she would never abuse the trust he has in her. He’d like to say the same about himself, but then again, to be certain is to be complacent, and he can’t risk that.

“Oh, and you’re coming to dinner on Friday,” he adds, just to hear Gaby’s huff of laughter over the phone. “You’re working too hard, darling. You need a break and some wine.”

“Vodka,” Gaby counters. “And of course I’m working hard, Solo, I’m the director of this stupid agency. Do you think Waverly ever took time off?”

Napoleon arches a brow, even though she can’t see him. Though knowing Gaby, or Illya, there is probably a hidden camera somewhere in his office that he can’t quite be bothered to find. “Waverly was an ex-Circus British agent who subsisted solely on tea and other people’s inconvenience,” he points out with a sly grin. “And I happen to know that you, dear Gaby, are only human.”

“Just wait,” Gaby says darkly. “One day I’ll spend so many nights up overseeing missions that I’ll turn into a vampire or something. Or a zombie.” She laughs suddenly, her voice clearing. “I can’t let Illya hear me say that, though, he’ll only start lecturing me on science fiction again. But yes, I’ll come over for dinner whenever you want,” she adds. “If there is good vodka. I’ll ask Illya to bring some back from Moscow when I call him.”

They talk for a few minutes longer on the phone, Gaby telling Napoleon as much as she can now that he doesn’t have the proper clearance anymore. He is retired, after all, and has been for a few years now. Even when Illya had still been in UNCLE, he’d mostly managed to avoid using his credentials to get into the system and have a look around, and now he doesn’t even have the excuse of checking up on his husband whilst he was away on missions.

There’s someone knocking on a door at the other end of the phone, and Napoleon can hear the voice of another agent speaking quietly to Gaby. A moment later and Gaby returns to the phone with a sigh. “I’d better go,” she says. “The Japanese Embassy is being difficult and I need to go smooth ruffled feathers.”

“Oh, ask to speak to Adachi, if he still works there,” Napoleon says. “Tell him that Napoleon Solo still remembers that time in Taiwan. He’ll get everything smoothed over soon enough, if he knows what’s good for him.”

Gaby laughs. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, darling,” she says. “I’ll speak to you later.”

“Bye, darling,” Napoleon says, and then there’s the sound of a dial tone. He puts his phone down almost reluctantly, and then hides the manuscripts before an errant fresher wanders into his office and sees them. As much as he’d love to get on a plane to Moscow, or to walk into the UNCLE headquarters and step right back into his old life of spies and agents and megalomaniacs, he knows he shouldn’t. He knows it would be far too tempting to stay as soon as he walked in the door.

0-o-0-o-0

After the tenth time in three minutes that the cab driver checks the mirrors, Illya sighs. “Don’t worry about the tail,” he says in Russian, as they drive through Moscow. There’s a light snow falling, the beginning of winter just beginning to creep in. He glances behind quickly to look at the black car following a few cars behind. “They’re just making sure I get to the airport without any detours.”

The cab driver meets his gaze in the mirror. “Do you need a detour?” he asks. “I can shake them if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” Illya says wearily. A small part of him wonders whether he should take the cab driver up on his offer, see if he could actually shake an FSB tail, but the larger part of him just wants to get on the plane and go home. “You’re good at spotting a tail, though.”

The cab driver shrugs. “I have been driving these streets for three decades,” he replies. “Driving around the Kremlin for three decades. I’ve seen plenty of this, plenty of those black cars thinking they’re being stealthy whilst they follow my cab. After so long, I know what to look out for.”

Illya huffs a laugh, and settles into the back seat of the cab a little more. “Fair enough,” he murmurs. He leans his head against the car window, and stares out as Moscow as it slips past him. It has been a long few days, and though there’s something comforting about walking the streets of the city that will always be his roots, he hasn’t called it home for years now. Home is a townhouse in Marylebone and a dog waiting at the door, curling around Napoleon in their bed, the smell of Napoleon’s aftershave on the sheets and the taste of coffee still on his lips as he kisses him goodbye in the mornings.

“Going on business, then?” the cab driver asks, a few minutes later. “That why we’ve got your friends behind us?”

Illya laughs wearily. “They aren’t friends,” he says. “They’ve been annoying me for days now. And no, they just don’t like me in Moscow. I’m going home.”

The cab driver looks up sharply. “You’re not from here?” he asks. “You certainly look it, and you talk like it. Drive a cab long enough, and it’s not just the tourists that are easy to pick out.” He gives Illya a long look, which Illya returns steadily, and he can feel the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m from here,” Illya replies. “Grew up in Arbat, actually. But my job took me abroad a lot, and London is home now.” His lips twist. “Well, as much of a home as London can be when you are Russian. Moscow has a strong grip.” He doesn’t think of London as home, as such. His first thoughts when someone says that word is a sly smirk and quick fingers, black hair curling in the rain.

“That it does,” the cab driver muses, glancing at him in the mirror. “So, what brought you back? Family, or business?”

“Neither,” Illya replies honestly. “Don’t have any family left here, and the people following us would not be happy if I was here for my job.” He doesn’t know quite why he’s being so honest with this stranger, the old cab driver who can’t straighten his back, wizened and curled over the steering wheel. The SVR ingrained secrecy into him too deeply for him to give up anything of importance, but still he finds words on his tongue. “I flew in for a funeral,” he says. “An old friend of mine, from my army days. He died a few days ago.” He swallows, and stares out the window for a moment.

“Was there a good turnout?” the cab driver asks.

Illya nods, still staring out the window at the familiar streets of Moscow, the sky beginning to darken into dusk. “He was liked,” he says quietly. “He had plenty of people there.”

None of them had talked to each other much, a group of quiet men and women in black suits and dresses standing aside from the grieving family. There had been a wariness throughout them, as if they all knew how dangerous each other were, but had agreed to put it aside for the sake of the funeral at least. None of them had cried, none of them said any words as the coffin lowered into the ground. Illya knows that amongst his kind, amongst the soldiers and spies and assassins that he will always belong to, they all know that they are lucky to get funerals, in the end.

“A good send off, then,” the cab driver says gruffly, and Illya nods.

“Better than my kind normally gets,” he murmurs, staring at the streets of Moscow and the city carved deep into his bones.

The cab driver hums. “I wouldn’t know that one,” he says cautiously. Illya doesn’t say anything, staring out of the window. Abruptly, his phone chimes. He digs it out to see a text from Napoleon, and he knows instantly that Napoleon thinks he might be upset and is trying to cheer him up, because the text is at least three quarters emoticons and emojis. He can’t help the smile on his face as he swipes his phone open and types out a short reply, fingers lingering slightly over the screen after he sends it.

When he looks up, the cab driver meets his gaze in the rearview mirror. “That your other half?” he asks. “You look like someone missing someone else.”

Illya pauses, weighing up the merits of keeping quiet, the possibility being looked at in revulsion for who he is against the crushing guilt of not telling the truth, of not being honest about the man he loves more than anything. “My husband,” he says quietly, after a long moment, thumb smoothing over the thin gold band on his finger. He could never be ashamed of Napoleon.

The cab driver stares at him in the mirror for a long few seconds, and Illya steadily returns the look. The old man clears his throat. “Good,” he says gruffly. “That’s good, son.”

Illya looks at him in surprise, and the cab driver winks. “Times are changing,” he says. “I’ve seen enough to know which side is the losing one, and which side is going to be right in the end. Fought in enough wars to know when one side is outgunned. And I’m too old for the world to belong to me now, anyway. It’s your place. I’m just driving the cab.”

Illya huffs a quiet laugh, and leans back against the window. “It’s hardly my place, either,” he says quietly. “I’ve done enough. A quiet life is pretty much all I want now.” There’s still a part of him that is an agent and a spy, there always will be, but he’s been out of the game for a couple of years now and slowly, over those long months, the urge to be running around trying to save the world from whatever is coming next had dimmed and been quietened. Napoleon has been a large part of that, he knows, one of the reasons why he was able to walk away in the first place, and now he thinks he just wants a life with him.

When they were both still spies at UNCLE, after they had stopped dancing around each other and fallen together, there were days where Illya was so terrified of losing Napoleon to any random bullet or knife or a thousand other ways they could die because of the job they did, that he thought he wouldn’t be able to hold onto him. That he thought he wouldn’t be good enough to keep him alive, to keep him whole and safe. He knows that Napoleon was terrified of the same thing.

Now, many long months after his last active mission, his last day as an official agent, the fear has quietened, and he’s almost convinced himself that he can have this life. He’s not quite there yet, not quite sure he’ll ever think he can have this without that pervasive guilt that he should be out there, sacrificing his life to try and keep other people safe, but he’s getting closer with every day that they get through.

They finally get to the airport, and the cab driver pulls up in front of the departures. “Have a good flight,” he says as Illya hands over money. “And have a quiet life.”

Illya pauses, halfway out of the cab. “What’s your name?” he suddenly asks.

There’s a smile on the cab driver’s face. “Sergei,” he answers.

“Sergei,” Illya repeats with a nod. “Thank you,” he adds, his voice quiet.

“When you’re next in Moscow and need a cab, look me up,” Sergei says, and he winks at Illya as he shuts the door. Illya watches the cab pull away as he stands on the pavement. The wind is picking up, that particular Moscow chill that stings his cheeks, and he takes a breath that almost burns in his throat. Illya can almost hear Napoleon complaining about the wind, wrapping himself up in one of his fancy wool trench coats with a pout on his face, but it’s barely cold for any Russian.

He takes another breath, stares out at the city he can’t help but love, and then turns to head inside the airport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was important to me that Illya never hides who he is and who he loves- it's a recurring theme in my stories that, beyond a few idiots, there isn't much homophobia seen. It honestly is hard for me to write, and not in a the-words-don't-come hard way, but in a this-makes-me-feel-sick hard way. So yeah, I don't think I'll ever end up writing something serious about the homophobia in Russia, or about either Napoleon or Illya trying to come to terms with their sexualities, it hits a little too close to home for me and I don't want to spend that much time thinking about a long and frustrating part of my life where I didn't know who I was.
> 
> I'm lucky to be bi and live in a pretty accepting country in the UK- by and large most British people are too emotionally repressed to say anything even if they don't approve, but it's not just about approval, or even acceptance. We just want to live our damn lives in peace.
> 
> Anyway, I did realise reading through this chapter just now that there is some foreshadowing for the next story, which I wrote well before I even realised there would need to be another story. If you can spot it, I'll give you some hints and clues about what's to come in the comments.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a bit later than I wanted it to be, but I have had a busy week!
> 
> There's a little bit of angst in this chapter, but it also gets resolved in this chapter. The plot is starting to kick in a little bit, but there's still a few chapters of domestic bliss before it gets awful. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Napoleon is waiting for him in arrivals, a smile on his face as soon as he spots Illya coming through the gate. “Good flight?” he asks, his hand slipping around Illya’s.

“Long,” Illya murmurs, resisting the urge to lean into Napoleon for a moment. He glances around the arrivals halls, watching the other people around them out of habit long since become instinct. Large crowds usually make him wary, but he has Napoleon watching out as well, and he’s too tired now to care overly much.

“Oh look, a couple of idiots are glaring at us for holding hands,” Napoleon says to him. “I have the sudden urge to piss them off.” He pauses, tugging Illya closer to him. Illya snorts, but obliges him and presses a soft kiss to Napoleon’s lips.

“Incorrigible, Cowboy,” he murmurs against Napoleon’s lips. Napoleon twists them so he can see the disapproving couple watching them with open sneers, and he winks at them as Illya pulls away. Their sneers grow, and they turn away. Illya snorts in amusement. “We can’t change everyone’s prejudices,” he says as they turn to head out of the airport.

“Oh, I know,” Napoleon replies. “But I can’t help myself, sometimes.”

A valet brings the car around, and Illya slumps in the passenger seat as Napoleon drives out of the confusing tangle of roads that make up Gatwick airport. “How was Moscow?” he asks, glancing over at Illya for as long as he can whilst driving. “The funeral?”

Illya shrugs. “Lots of men and women in black clothes standing in the cold,” he says. “Funerals for spies are always strange things, but Markos was well-liked. Everyone put their grudges aside for the funeral.” He sighs, staring out of the window at the grey of London in the rain. “Oleg was there.”

“Oh?” Napoleon asks. “I would have thought he’d stay away from funerals.”

“He used to,” Illya replies. “I think he felt guilty over something.” Napoleon arches a brow, and Illya shakes his head. “Not over Markos’ death, I think. I asked around, and he died going back for his captured partner on mission. Nobody’s fault, in the end, apart from people who killed him.”

“Does everyone think that?” Napoleon asks. They both know how easy it is to lay blame at other people’s feet, especially for spies. Death always makes things complicated.

“People were…wary,” Illya says slowly. “Nobody knew who to blame, I think. But most didn’t talk much to me at funeral. I don’t think they were allowed.” A wry smile curls his lips. “After all, I am…complicated, politically.” Napoleon huffs a laugh at that, and reaches out for Illya’s hand.

“Yes, you may be many things, but convenient has never been one of them,” he says lightly. “I don’t doubt they were warned by their handlers to keep their distance from you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Illya replies, settling back into the leather seats of the car that he’s secretly grateful Napoleon bought. “Some of them were from my old spetsnaz days, and they don’t care anymore what their handlers think.” He grimaces. “There was a lot of vodka involved. We went for wake after the funeral, just those who knew Markos in the spetsnaz, and there was a lot of vodka.” He sighs softly. “It was good to see them, but strange.”

“Strange how?” Napoleon asks. "Were they annoyed at you over leaving, or because they never see you anymore?"

“None of us see each other much at all,” Illya points out. “We’re all over the world now, doing different things. No, it felt like they were…envious, in a way. They are all still in military, one way or another. I was the only one out.” He shrugs. “It was strange.”

It’s hard to put into words, even now as he’s in the car with Napoleon. Napoleon was a soldier, but a reluctant one, and he left soon enough to pursue more lucrative opportunities. Illya wouldn’t have it any other way, he doesn’t want to imagine whether the US army would have succeeded in beating Napoleon down to a shell of what he is now, if he’d stayed, but he knows that Napoleon can’t quite understand why Illya is still in contact with the men he served with in the spetsnaz. Napoleon can’t quite grasp why, even after all these years and everything they’ve been through, Illya still gets phone calls from them, why occasionally they meet in a neutral country when they have the chance, if only to see each other.

Illya doesn’t quite understand why he still keeps in touch with them, either. They’re not quite friends, not in the normal sense of the word. They know each other well enough to bring someone down, if they wanted to, but they never have. There’s an unspoken truce amongst themselves that they won’t do such things to each other, no matter what governments or handlers say, as long as they all remain somewhat on the right side of that blurred grey line they’ve lived on for so long. After everything they did together during those years, he thinks that maybe they just want to reassure each other that they’re still there.

He’s the only one of them, out of those who are still alive, who has managed to retire. So much of that he owes to Napoleon, one way or another, but he guesses that to all those men he served with, still serving in some way or another, it must be strange to see him out. He wonders if somewhere, somehow, they are envious of where he’s managed to get.

“Oleg told me to be careful, by the way,” he says after a few minutes.

Napoleon arches a brow. “Is that a generic ‘be careful’, or a more specific one where what you have to be careful about is classified?” he asks carefully. “Oleg never used to give you hints.”

Illya sighs, and takes a few moments to put the words together in his head. “People used to say Oleg had soft spot for me, back in SVR,” he says slowly. “I never believed them, of course. He wasn’t any kinder to me than to others. But looking back…” He trails off and shakes his head. “Maybe he did. I don’t know. I was his best agent, after all, maybe he looked out for me in ways I never realised.”

“I think you’re giving him a bit too much credit,” Napoleon says, wondering where this is going. “You worked your way up through the spetsnaz and SVR by yourself.”

“Nobody ever makes it up on their own,” Illya points out. “Even if your friendships and loyalty is bought.” He gives Napoleon a pointed look, and Napoleon huffs a laugh.

“Fine, I’ll take that one,” he admits. “But be careful, Peril. Oleg is still a handler. He will always have ulterior motives.”

“You think I don’t know that, Cowboy?” Illya snaps. “I was the SVR agent, not you. I do know how they work, how Oleg thinks. And I know you’re thinking he’s playing me somehow, has some long game running that I can’t see, but I do know how to handle myself. You weren’t there, Cowboy. You weren’t watching them put Markos’ body into the ground, seeing the looks you got from other spies just for being there. You don’t know them like I do.”

He crosses his arms, and stares out the window. “I’m just saying,” Napoleon says cautiously. “That you’re not unbiased in this, and that hindsight makes everything look better. You might think now that Oleg was good to you, but I’m willing to bet that’s just hindsight being a bitch, and it’s biasing your view of him now. He’s always playing a long game.”

Illya just shakes his head. “You don’t know SVR,” he says again.

“I know enough,” Napoleon snaps. “I know that what they did to you, it still…” He swallows, and his hands clench around the steering wheel. “Forgive me for not trusting a word any of them say, when I’ve seen what they do to their own agents,” he says. “Oleg is taking advantage of you, somehow, and deep down you know it to. You just don’t want to admit it, in case it jeopardises everything you remember of Russia, however biased those memories are.”

Illya swallows heavily. “I would stop talking now,” he says quietly. “Just…stop.”

The car is silent for the rest of the drive back to Marylebone, and Illya resists looking over at Napoleon every five minutes. London is quiet on a Wednesday evening, late enough that the rush hour traffic is long gone, and it doesn’t take long before they’re pulling up in front of their house. Neither of them say anything as Illya grabs his suitcase and Napoleon unlocks the door to Laika all but launching herself down the steps towards Illya.

There’s a good ten minutes of them moving silently around each other, not speaking as Napoleon reheats some food for Illya, as Illya unpacks his suitcase and lets Laika out into the garden when she starts to whine.

Finally, Napoleon sets a plate down on the counter with a little more force than necessary, and Illya can see the wince on his face. “Okay, fine,” he says, his voice heated. “I’ve had enough of this silence.” He turns, facing Illya. “I’m just worried that Oleg is planning something, okay? You’ve fought so hard to get out of all of that, walk away from the game, and I’m not having Oleg pull you back in with cryptic hints.”

Illya shakes his head, and leans against the kitchen table. “You’re overreacting,” he says. “He told me to be careful. I don’t think it is end of the world.”

“One look at our history and you’ll know I’m not overreacting,” Napoleon snaps. “I don’t care if I’m being paranoid, I’d rather that than forget everyone who’s come after us trying to nail us to a wall. Literally, in the case of those bastards in Chile.”

“Stop trying to distract me like that, you know it doesn’t work,” Illya says steadily. “And I can handle myself. You know I can handle myself. Stop trying to pretend that you don’t.”

“I’m not pretending about anything,” Napoleon replies. He huffs a frustrated sigh, and runs a hand over his face. “Peril, you have to admit that you are biased. You have to know that.”

“And you have to know that you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Illya snaps. “You don’t know anything about Moscow, about the SVR, about what the hell I’ve been through with those men. You weren’t ever a soldier, not like I was.”

“Yeah, but I know you,” Napoleon points out. “And I know what they did to you. I’m never in a charitable mood when it comes to them. They’ve kept you up far too many nights.”

“It’s my past, which makes it my problem,” Illya snaps. “Don’t be so paranoid.” He turns away, swallowing the curse on his lips. “Oleg didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s Oleg, of course he meant something by it.” Napoleon runs a hand over his face. “I’m not…Peril, for God’s sake, I just want you to be cautious. If Oleg did mean something, if he is playing the long game like I think he is, then…just be wary.”

“I can handle myself,” Illya says stubbornly. “You weren’t there, and you don’t know them. I watched them lower Markos’ body into the ground after he went back for his partner and died, standing next to all the people who have managed to survive alongside with me and surrounded by graves of the ones who didn’t, so don’t tell me I don’t know how they all work. Don’t tell me I’m biased. I know this world.”

“As do I!” Napoleon all but shouts. “You think I don’t, just because I’ve been out of the game a couple of years? God, I wish I could forget everything I know, I wish I could take your word that Oleg doesn’t mean anything when he tells you to be careful, but fucking hell, Illya, there’s too much blood on my hands to ever forget it! So yeah, I’m paranoid! I’ve seen it before! And I know how fucking wonderful hindsight can make everything seem, how much better it can make everything look to the point that you trust people who would sell you out for their own agenda.”

“Stop making this into something it isn’t,” Illya snaps. “I know you. You want this to be something, you want Oleg to have some agenda, so that your paranoia is justified. We are civilians now, Cowboy. Not everyone is out to get us.”

“The stolen manuscripts beg to differ,” Napoleon replies. “But don’t try to turn this on me.”

“I’m not that biased,” Illya snarls. “I’m not so blind that I don’t know what I’ve been through, or so that hindsight makes everything look so perfect.”

“It’s enough that you might look past whatever Oleg actually means to what you want him to mean,” Napoleon snaps. “And yeah, maybe I’m being paranoid, but I can’t help think that it might just end up being enough to make you walk back into the fucking game!”

Illya stares at him. When he opens his mouth, he finds that there’s something in his throat that makes it difficult to speak for a second. “Do you really think it would take that little to make me walk away from you?” he asks quietly.

Napoleon’s expression turns wrecked, and Illya can’t bear it. He turns and walks out of the kitchen.

0-o-0-o-0

Illya is a third of the way through a Pratchett book, one so well-read that the spine is beyond cracked and the pages all dog-eared, when Napoleon walks into the bedroom. He undresses quietly, and Illya tries not to watch him over his book. Even Pratchett, though, can’t quite keep his attention.

Eventually Napoleon sighs. “Peril,” he says softly. Illya doesn’t say anything, but he can’t help but put his book down, and that’s all Napoleon needs. He gets into bed and curls up to Illya’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Illya’s shoulder. “I went too far.”

Illya sighs, and shifts down in the bed so that he can slip his arm around Napoleon’s shoulders, toying with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Little bit, Cowboy,” he murmurs. “Just a little bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon murmurs again, his voice muffled against Illya’s pyjama shirt. “I’m an idiot.”

“You’re my idiot, so it’s acceptable,” Illya replies, and there’s the barest of laughs from Napoleon, a warm breath against his collarbone.

“You’d think I’d have gotten used to the feeling that the world is out to get us,” Napoleon says after a few minutes. “And yet…” He sighs, and traces a nonsensical pattern on Illya’s arm for a moment. “I can’t help being paranoid, sometimes. Especially when it comes to something endangering you.”

“We’ve been through this before, Cowboy,” Illya says softly. “We are trying to have these lives that are separate from UNCLE, normal civilian lives, and every time anything changes that a little you get paranoid it’s all going to go away. And then you start jumping at shadows.” He captures Napoleon’s hand as it wanders down his arm. “You almost want Oleg to have some agenda, because then it would justify your worries. I know you worry, but that doesn’t mean you get to tell me I can’t see it.”

“I know, I know,” Napoleon mutters. “It isn’t any excuse.” He sighs. “It’s almost harder now we’re retired,” he adds. “At least when we were at UNCLE, we were expecting it. We knew what was around the corner.”

Illya shakes his head. “I don’t think either of us would have ever guessed about the maniacs in Chile with…you know, they had the spinning wheel thing and sparks and everything?”

“Oh, the angle grinders?” Napoleon asks. “Yeah, I didn’t see an anarchist group with a strange love for modified construction tools to use for torture coming anytime soon either.” He huffs a quiet laugh, and presses an absent kiss to the skin of Illya’s shoulder that he can reach. Illya hums, stroking a hand through Napoleon’s hair.

“I know what you mean,” he says eventually. “And I was too harsh, I think. The funeral was harder than I thought it would be, and that didn’t help.”

“Why?” Napoleon asks quietly. Illya tries to put the words together in his head, and finds them wholly insufficient. He tries to speak them anyway, in the quiet hush of their bedroom, the murmur of London just about audible. It’s easier, now, to try and put some semblance of structure into the thoughts that he’d been ignoring since he’d walked across the grass to the coffin waiting and the spies around it like carrion. Everything is usually easier, when there’s the warm weight of Napoleon against his side.

“I couldn’t help think,” he begins slowly, “watching Markos’ body be buried, that there are fewer of us each time this happens. That we can pick out the spaces where others should be every time we meet. I don’t…” He trails off, and takes a moment to breathe, to try and stop the crushing weight on his chest. “I don’t want to be the last one left.”

“Oh,” Napoleon says softly. Illya purposefully doesn’t look at him, stares at the curtains drawn across the window, and there’s a soft rustle as the weight shifts off him. There’s a hand pressing against his cheek. “Peril,” Napoleon says quietly. “Look at me.”

“Don’t want to,” Illya says stubbornly. “I’m meant to be mad at you.” There’s a soft laugh from Napoleon. He pushes at Illya’s cheek a little, and Illya eventually gives in and looks over at him. Even now, when they’ve been married for years, he is still sometimes struck by how beautiful Napoleon is.

Napoleon smiles softly. “It’s going to sound horribly selfish, but I’d rather you were here and they were all dead,” he says honestly. “I’ll always pick you, and you know it.” He smooths a thumb across Illya’s cheek. “I won’t give you some spiel about how we’ve all chosen this game, one way or another, or anything else you already know. I’ve been there, standing at a grave and wondering who’s next, so I’ll just say that I’m immeasurably glad that we’re out, and the chances of it being you have lessened considerably.”

“Me too, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs. He knows, rationally, that there is no point trying to fill in the gaps with the people who have already died. He knows that tomorrow he’ll barely think of it in the light of the day, that he’ll get on with the life that he and Napoleon have carved out for themselves, but tonight the shadows in the corners of the room make everything harder.

He turns, pressing a soft kiss to Napoleon’s lips, and Napoleon smiles. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry I even thought about doubting you.”

“Apology accepted,” Illya replies. He reaches for his book again, and Napoleon nudges him.

“Read it to me?” he asks quietly. It’s an apology, and an ask for forgiveness, and the quiet question that Illya knows that Napoleon understands the semblance of the thoughts in Illya’s mind, can guess at what he’s thinking and loves him wholeheartedly anyway, or even because of it. Illya rolls his eyes, and it’s a quiet sort of acceptance and forgiveness.

“You don’t like Pratchett,” he points out.

“I haven’t read much Pratchett,” Napoleon says with a huff. “There’s a difference. Anyway, any book sounds good when you’re reading it.” He nudges Illya again. “Read me something.”

“Incorrigible,” Illya mutters, but he turns to the book anyway. “ _An Assassin, a real Assassin, had to look like one - black clothes, hood, boots, and all. If they could wear any clothes, any disguise, then what could anyone do but spend all day in a small room with a loaded crossbow pointed at the door?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from Terry Pratchett's Nightwatch, which is probably my favourite Discworld book out of all of them. If you haven't read any Discworld, I would recommend starting with this one- it's the one I started with, and you don't really need to understand a lot of the nuances of the world to read it (also it's amazing, so well written and bittersweet).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a bit long! I've had a busy week with work and life, and writing the other stories I'm working on right now is going quite slow, so I might dial down the rate at which I'm publishing to give me a little more time to get over this writer's slump (it'll still probably be about once a week, I'm definitely not disappearing anywhere!)
> 
> Little bit more fluff and domesticity before plot starts to kick in, enjoy it whilst you can...

“So, if we look at the current social divides seen in this era, taking into account the class that this painter came from, what can we say about the relevance that this artwork had with the, quote unquote, masses?”

A few hands immediately go up in the air as Napoleon asks the question, and privately he wonders whether they actually have a well thought out answer, or just want to pretend like they do in order to impress him. He loves teaching, loves the work that he does, but sometimes he feels like there are some students who could use a spell in the army to learn when and where their own ego is important. He hasn’t yet wished to hand anyone over to Gaby or Illya, but it has come close a couple of times.

He picks out one of the students with their hands up at random, hoping that they don’t use the word _bourgeoisie_ unironically in their answer. The painting in question is right beside him, the early afternoon light streaming through the high windows of the art gallery that he’s taking the class in. He prefers teaching in the galleries around the banks of the Thames, rather than the cold rooms of the Cortauld Institute, prefers being able to stand in front of the artwork instead of having an image projected up on the screen, a poor version that never captures what is so brilliant about the art.

Illya has decided that Napoleon only likes teaching in the galleries because he’s useless with computers and making presentations. Even if there is some truth to that, Napoleon has entrenched himself in the argument, and knows that he’ll never admit to it now.

The student talking manages not to use _bourgeoisie_ unironically in their answer, and Napoleon nods. “Nicely done,” he says. “Anyone have a rebuttal, or something else they want to add?”

Eventually the class breaks up into smaller groups, discussing the artwork as Napoleon wanders around amongst them. He gets drawn into a discussion over the precise timeline of Modernism which lasts for a good ten minutes, and is considering running the class for longer if the students want to, to discuss a few points that they brought up, when he spots a familiar figure waiting in the doorway.

“Right, that’s enough for today,” Napoleon says. The students all but snatch their bags up and disappear, eager to get home before the usual London rush hour and the horror that is the Tube. Napoleon waits in the gallery, studying one of the paintings hanging there. Someone brushes up against him.

“What does this mean?” Gaby asks as she looks at the painting, her voice cast soft in the weighted quiet of the gallery. “Is it important?”

Napoleon arches a brow. “What makes a painting important?” he asks, not looking away from where it hangs on the wall. “The skill, how famous the artist was, when it was painted? Why is, oh, I don’t know, Picasso known by everyone but Helen Torr forgotten? All artwork is as important as we decide it to be, darling.”

He doesn’t need to look at her to see her roll her eyes. “If this is what Illya has to put up with every day, I’m not surprised he refuses to come to the Institute,” she mutters. “You know what I mean, idiot. What is it?” She waves a hand at the painting, and Napoleon’s lips quirk in a grin, as if he can barely begin to explain what this painting is.

“ _La Promenade_ ,” he says. “Well, technically it’s called Woman with Parasol, but _La Promenade_ sounds better. It’s by Monet, a painting of his wife and son, in their garden in Paris. As for why it’s famous?” He pauses. “I could write a whole dissertation on it, but suffice it to say that his mastery of light and movement is probably most pronounced in this painting, and the series it belongs to. It’s on loan from the National Gallery of Art in Washington, for this exhibit.” He huffs a brief laugh. “Don’t know why the US get to keep this. It belongs in France, or at least Europe.”

“International diplomacy, darling,” Gaby replies. “Surely you haven’t forgotten how that works.” She wanders away a few steps, looking at the next painting. “What about this one? I like the colours of this.”

Napoleon can’t help himself, and he lets out a short laugh. “I’m flattered,” he says with a smirk, “but I think that you, Director Teller, should not hear any more from me on that painting.” Gaby gives him a suspicious look, but Napoleon’s grin just widens. “Plausible deniability,” he just says.

“Oh, you idiot,” Gaby says, but her voice is affectionate. “Fine, I won’t ask you too much about it. Don’t you feel, oh I don’t know, like it’s a bit unfair at the least? That this one isn’t what it should be?”

Napoleon shrugs. “Would never have gotten where I am if I started feeling guilty over my previous…indiscretions,” he points out. “Besides, why should one piece be more famous just because it was painted by someone famous? It’s the same painting, after all.” Gaby arches a brow at that, and Napoleon huffs a laugh. “Let’s not go down that path, or we’ll get into the type of argument that Illya and I always end up in.”

“Who wins?” Gaby asks.

Napoleon’s grin widens. “Oh, half the time we reach an impasse and find…alternative ways to work it out,” he replies, smirking. “But I do have the classical education, and Illya stopped having any formal education when he was sixteen and was all but pressganged into the army. I think I can edge him out on those sorts of arguments.”

“Yes, well I suppose the other way is much more fun for the both of you,” Gaby says dryly. “Now, are we going to actually hang around in this gallery all day, or can we go back to your office and your stash of good coffee?”

“Long day already?” Napoleon asks, but he turns and heads for the gallery exit and the Institute. “I’m surprised you can take the time off to come and visit an irrelevant arts professor like me.”

Gaby smiles, and links her arms through Napoleon’s. “Oh, you’re too annoying to ever be irrelevant,” she says, just to make Napoleon laugh. “And you still do have those manuscripts I need.”

“Ah, of course,” Napoleon says. They get to the Institute and to his office, and he carefully gets the manuscripts out of the concealed bottom of the drawer, sliding them out of the protective covers. He beckons Gaby over. “So, I’ve compared these to Titian’s works that we have here in the Institute, along with the few documents we have referencing him, and it all checks out as legitimate. These sketches here,” and he carefully turns over the pages to show half-formed people, the beginnings of scenes set out across pages, “are consistent with his stylings, especially the colour palettes and brushwork. Definitely authentic to Titian, so you’ll have no trouble putting it up on the black market to draw in your suspect. I’ve made up some separate sketches that will stand up to muster as long as they don’t get carbon-dated.” He pulls them out, spreading them out across his desk, and Gaby stands on her toes to study them over his shoulder.

“I never knew you were that good at forging,” she murmurs as she studies the sketches. Napoleon’s lips quirk in a grin.

“Well, you steal enough art and you learn what’s real and what’s a fake,” he says with a laugh. “But I’m nowhere near good enough to actually replicate a painting, so a few sketches are all you’re getting.”

“It’s more than enough, Solo,” Gaby says. “Thank you for this.”

“Are you kidding?” Napoleon asks. “This was the best vacation we’d had in years, we almost owe you for sending it our way.” He pauses. “Almost. Don’t go getting any ideas, darling. We are still retired, Illya and I, and we don’t want back in.”

There’s something in the tone of his voice that makes Gaby pause. “Is that something you’re worried about?” she asks, as Napoleon slides the manuscript and sketches back into its protective covers and wraps them up in another protective layer.

Napoleon takes a moment to check the protection on the manuscripts, before putting them into another box. “Markos’ funeral hit Illya harder than he thought it would,” he says eventually. “I think it was seeing his spetsnaz team from those days, seeing the gaps in the team where people had died. He’s on the outside, in a way, and I think the others don’t know how to react to that.”

“It’s a strange relationship, that’s for sure,” Gaby comments. “That sort of army friendship, especially when it comes to something as complicated as going from the spetsnaz to the KGB to UNCLE, and then to relative retirement, is bound to be difficult at times.” She runs a hand down Napoleon’s back in a comforting way. “He seemed okay when I came for dinner last week. I’m sure you’re inflating things a little in your mind.”

Napoleon huffs a dry laugh. “You know, I’m not surprised you say that,” he mutters. “After everything we’ve done together.” He sighs, and slumps into the chair at his desk. “We’ll be fine, it’s just put things a little off kilter at the moment. It’ll come back soon enough.” He spins his chair slightly at his desk and looks up at Gaby. “Anyway, how are you doing? How is UNCLE treating you?”

“Oh, you know,” Gaby says. “It feels like I’m trying to hold together a slowly sinking ship on some days, but then on other days...” She trails off, shaking her head, but there’s a slow smile curling her lips. “We’re doing some good, Solo,” she says quietly. “Those days when it all comes together, you know the ones I mean? That makes all the long nights and horrible days worthwhile.”

Napoleon smiles fondly. “There’s nothing quite like that rush, when you pull it off,” he says. “One of the reasons why we’re careful about going back too often. It is rather addictive, isn’t it?”

“Without a doubt,” Gaby says. “But UNCLE is doing well. We’ve got a strong foothold in the global intelligence community now, and a strong reputation as well. Even the trickier countries are coming round to our expertise, though it’s making it difficult to remain impartial.”

“Well, agencies are always going to accuse you of favouritism if a mission doesn’t align with their interests,” Napoleon says. “What does the UN think?”

“Officially?” Gaby asks, a sly grin on her face. “They take no stance beyond that of law and justice and all of that. Unofficially, I know that some people there are pretty damn pleased with what we’re doing, especially the lack of…bureaucracy, I suppose, that comes with us compared to the UN.” She snorts. “The amount of red tape there is astounding.”

“The UN has a good ethos, of course, but anything that tries to be that good is always going to come with far too many restrictions to make it effective in some areas,” Napoleon points out. “That’s the point of intelligence agencies, I suppose. That’s the point of UNCLE.”

Gaby nods. “We’re doing well, though,” she says. She picks up one of the trinkets on Napoleon’s desk, turning it over in her hands. “This isn’t hideously expensive, is it?” she asks. “I don’t want to accidentally break it.”

“You’re a mechanic,” Napoleon points out. “I trust those hands. But no, it’s not expensive. It’s some trinket from Taiwan that Illya brought back a few years ago. It was meant to be a joke, but I actually quite love it, it’s that stupid.” He huffs a laugh. “And you thought it was expensive.”

“There’s a fine line between expensive and stupid, and people cross it far too often,” Gaby replies with a smirk. “On that subject, don’t think I don’t know about the statuettes.”

“What statuettes?” Napoleon says immediately. Gaby’s grin widens.

“Play coy all you like, but you know what I mean,” she says. “If some lovely statuettes from Vienna pop up on the black market anytime soon, I’ll know where to look.”

Napoleon waves a hand, leaning back in his chair. “You’re far too busy with megalomaniacs and corrupt ex-government bodies that have splintered off to form extremist groups,” he replies, with an easy grin curling his lips. “Don’t worry about a statuette or two that are definitely not in my possession.”

Gaby rolls her eyes. “I will try very hard not to,” she says. She hops off his desk, straightening her jacket and smoothing out her shirt. “I should get going,” she says as she picks up the box containing the manuscripts. “Give my love to Illya. I’ll come over on the weekend, see if I can’t beat him at chess this time.”

“He’s still wiping the floor with me, I doubt you’ll have a chance,” Napoleon says wryly. He gets up and presses a kiss to her cheek as she heads for the door. “Go save the world, darling.” Gaby is halfway out the door when Napoleon speaks up again. “Oh, and by the way?” he says. “Illya did try to talk me out of it in Vienna, this time. Don’t blame him for my hypothetical work on the side.”

Gaby shoots him a look over her shoulder. “Illya is far too soft on you,” she replies. “Have you ever seen how he looks at you when you talk about art? Of course he’s not going to stop you stealing those statuettes if it makes you happy.” She tries to keep the smile of her face as she says that and fails significantly, making Napoleon’s lips quirk in an answering smile.

“Allegedly,” he calls after her as she leaves, and he can hear Gaby laughing as the office door falls shut behind her.

0-o-0-o-0

 Illya turns the collar of his coat up against the wind that’s just beginning to become biting and sidesteps yet another group of tourists that don’t know how to walk in London. He doesn’t go into the middle of the city much, large crowds and all the tourists grating under his skin even as he walks down towards the Institute, but Napoleon is hopeless at being on time when he’s teaching, and Illya is well aware it’s far too much to ask him to get back home and then go back out on time.

If he thinks too much about it, he won’t be able to stop trying to piece together the timeline of just how Napoleon has changed, over the years that they’ve been apart from UNCLE. He doesn’t want to think too much about how he’s relaxed, how he can now walk through central London with only a slight restlessness and worry crawling under his skin, instead of that constant paranoia that had accompanied him for so much of his life. If he concentrates on it, there’s a small part of him that thinks it will all go up in smoke, and he’s never going to be willing to risk that.

He reaches the entrance to Somerset House on the Strand and, of course, Napoleon isn’t yet there. He doesn’t bother texting him, because he knows that he’ll be far too distracted by lecturing to check his phone, even if half of the students he teaches are far too curious about their professor’s elusive husband. It takes nearly ten minutes, during which Illya half hides himself in the shadows of one of the pillars at the entrance and watches the tourists wander past, before Napoleon comes rushing out of the Institute. He spots Illya almost immediately, and Illya can’t help the smile that curls his lips at the way Napoleon’s expression softens.

“I know, I know,” Napoleon says as he hurries over, tugging on his coat whilst trying to stop his bag from falling to the floor. Illya reaches out and takes it from him whilst Napoleon pulls his coat on, smoothing out the lapel of his coat. Napoleon captures his hand and presses a brief kiss to Illya’s lips in the half shadows of the pillar. “Sorry, I got distracted,” he says.

“Don’t you always, Cowboy?” Illya asks, tangling their fingers together. He tugs Napoleon out and along the street and they blend in with the crowd as they make their way towards the Thames. “What was it this time?”

“Final years and Cezanne,” Napoleon replies. “We were having a very interesting discussion about the influence of the French Third Republic government and the rise of consumerism in Paris, and how it influenced the art movements of the time.” Illya rolls his eyes, and Napoleon huffs a laugh. “It was a very interesting discussion, I’ll have you know,” he protests. “But I completely lost track of time. It actually took the students to remind me I had to get out of there.”

“That happens a lot,” Illya says dryly. “I should send thank you cards to students for keeping our marriage together.”

“If that’s the case, then you’d probably have to go and thank all the megalomaniacs and neo-fascists who tried to kill us over the years,” Napoleon points out. “They were just as instrumental in getting us together, in some ways.”

“They get to live,” Illya replies. “That’s thanks enough.” He pauses. “For the most part, though I don’t regret those fascists in Mumbai.”

Napoleon shudders. “Nobody regrets the fascists in Mumbai,” he says. He squeezes Illya’s hand gently as they walk through the streets of London. “How was your day?” he asks.

“Mark called,” Illya says, taking a shortcut through the Middle Temple gardens. Even with the wind that’s catching through the streets and the slight chill beginning to creep over London, as much as it can in a city like this, the day looks like it’s going to be one of those days where the tourists line up to take pictures of the sun glinting of the Thames under the Tower Bridge. “He’s back in London in week or so, if all goes well.”

“Isn’t he meant to be retired from the SAS?” Napoleon asks. “What’s he doing abroad again?”

“Teaching, and that’s all he’ll tell me,” Illya replies. “Seems to be enjoying it, but he wants to have break in London afterwards, take some time off to get back to the dojo. I’m going to try and make him teach some self-defence classes, but we’ll see whether it actually works.”

“After he found out that we were the ones to save his ass in Somalia, I think he’ll do whatever you ask,” Napoleon points out. Illya hums in agreement. Mark was part of an SAS team that they’d run into years ago, during their UNCLE years, and he and Napoleon had gotten them out of a tight spot with some rebels who were far too liberal with their hand grenades. Illya saw him again in a random pub in London years later, Mark retired from the SAS, and though neither of them can really tell each other what they did during their active years, sometimes it’s enough to have someone who can just guess at the broad details, and nothing more.

They wander across Blackfriars Bridge, Illya’s glare parting the usual seas of tourists and Napoleon giving a few jostled people apologetic glances. Illya can’t find it in himself to be sorry for pushing them out the way, though. Anyone in London should know how to walk properly in a city, and those who don’t need pushing until they get it.

“You’re terrorising the tourists again, love,” Napoleon says as they make it across the bridge. “If you keep it up, they’ll never come back.”

Illya scoffs. “That’s the point, isn’t it?” he asks. “Then there would only be people in centre of the city that know how to walk properly in London.” He sidesteps another tourist group, glaring at them until the hurry away. Napoleon huffs a laugh, and links his arm with Illya’s.

“Forget them, let’s go and have lunch,” he says. “There won’t be any tourists in the restaurant.”

Illya has to concede that, and they head into the Oxo Tower, taking the lift up to the restaurant at the top. There’s a view out across London, the quintessential shot of the Thames and the London Eye, Big Ben and the Parliament buildings further down the river. Napoleon settles into the seat at the table they’re shown to with a relaxed smile, and Illya notices, not for the first time, how at ease Napoleon looks in this sort of environment. He’s always leant towards what Illya likes to call decadence, when he’s making fun of capitalism, but he really does look like he belongs here, high up above the Thames, eyes bright as he starts to talk about the new research project coming up in the department.

Illya orders a wine, and swirls it absent-mindedly in the glass as he watches the city from above, tracking the movements of the tiny people down on the pavements. Napoleon gives him an amused look. “You’ve got that look on your face, Peril,” he says, a sly smirk on his lips.

“What look?” Illya asks, glancing away from the windows and back at Napoleon. There’s an amused tilt to Napoleon’s head, his eyes flitting across Illya’s face.

“Gaby calls it your sniper face,” he says. “You know, the look that you get whenever you get a sniper rifle in your hands.” Illya rolls his eyes, and Napoleon’s grin widens. “Don’t deny you like being up above people like this, Peril,” he points out. “You always picked the highest vantage points you could when out on missions.”

Illya glances out the window again, at the people flitting past them down below, the tourists taking pictures of the view across the Thames. There’s something ingrained in him that makes him head for a vantage point, sniper rifle in his hands or not, just as that’s been long ingrained in him, the thousands of hours he’s spent looking through the scope of a rifle burying deep into his bones. Even having been out of the game for a few years, there are still so many little things engraved into them, buried too deep to dig back out. Napoleon rarely walks into a room without casing it in subtle glances, working out the best entrance and exit points and how he would escape if he needed to.

They’re trying so hard to get out, trying so hard to live their normal civilian lives, but sometimes it seems like they’ll never really make it. Illya knows Napoleon worries about it, worries that he’ll become bored with the normal life and want to disappear back into the game, because Illya has similar worries. It shows in different ways, though, between the two of them, and though both of them will always be a little paranoid, when Napoleon is worrying the paranoia surfaces even more. Illya does what he can to dampen it down, keeps Gaby from gossiping about cases or distracts Napoleon with a trip or a day out, but he isn’t always the best at it.

He’s jolted out of his thought by Napoleon’s hand gently grasping his. He smooths his thumb over the back of Illya’s hand. “No getting a sniper rifle now,” he says jokingly, though there’s an undertone to his voice that Illya undoubtedly recognises but can’t ever quite identify. “What do you want for lunch? And don’t just choose the least expensive item on the menu. I’ve spent years trying to get you out of your socialist ways, I’m not giving up now.”

Illya snorts, turning back to the table and the menu in front of him. “You can try all you like, Cowboy,” he says. “I put up with your capitalist decadence, but you won’t ever convert me. Not even with the Range Rover you are thinking of buying.” Napoleon arches a brow, and Illya levels him with a look. “Internet history is a thing,” he reminds him. “We live in London. We don’t need Range Rover, and we would never actually have chance to take it off road like you want to.”

“I was just thinking that we’d had so much fun with that mission in Georgia,” Napoleon protests. “Don’t deny that you loved that chase, Peril.”

“Yes, Cowboy,” Illya says dryly. “I loved being chased by splinter group who were trying to shoot out our tyres, along a mountain path that was half flooded with glacial melt, with Gaby trying to remotely defuse bomb in back of car and you hanging half out door shooting back at them. I definitely want to do that again.”

“Don’t forget all my backseat driving,” Napoleon points out, a grin curling his lips. “I half-thought that you were going to shoot me yourself, finish off the job that the splinter group tried to start.” He laughs, and Illya is briefly struck by how beautiful he looks against the backdrop of London.

They eat slowly, savouring the time they have before Napoleon has to go back to the Institute and teach another lecture. At one point, Illya notices the way Napoleon is staring thoughtfully at the London Eye across the bridge.

“Go on then,” he says.

Napoleon arches a brow. “Go on with what, precisely?”

Illya waves a hand at the London Eye out the window. “I know you’re thinking about it. How would you steal one of the…capsule things?”

“One of those pods?” Napoleon stares at the wheel again, resting his chin in his hand, and hums thoughtfully. “They must be able to be taken off, I suppose, if only for maintenance.”

“From the river?” Illya asks. Napoleon gives him a look.

“We’re in the middle of London, you’re never going to get a window of time long enough to get away with it unnoticed,” he points out. “Besides, that would be far too easy to track, if you had to take it through the Thames flood barriers.” He studies the London Eye again. “I would probably cause a mechanical problem that would require the pod to be taken away for maintenance, and then steal it in transit.”

“It would depend on where they fix it,” Illya says. “But if you diverted it through quieter streets you would have better chance of taking truck in transit. Or you could wait until later, when it’s already reached destination, and then take it.” He pauses. “What the hell would you do with it, though?”

Napoleon laughs. “If I’ve learnt anything from the years in the art world, Peril, it’s that there’s always someone out there with too much money and too little common sense. There’s a market for everything, if you sell it right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Napoleon really forge that painting, or have something to do with its forgery, or is he just winding Gaby up? I haven't actually decided, so feel free to think what you want.
> 
> The Oxo Tower is a posh restaurant in London that's on the banks of the Thames- if you've ever been around Southbank or on a Thames cruise, then chances are you'll have seen it, even if you didn't notice it. The restaurant is at the top of the building, and there's the classic view of London with the London Eye and Houses of Parliament visible from there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been fighting off a nasty cold for the past few days and have spent most of this weekend in bed, apologies for this being a little later than I wanted it to be. But I have managed to get a little momentum going on the Halloween story, so hopefully that will start going places soon!
> 
> This is pretty much the last chapter before the angst kicks in, the real plot is starting here, but it won't really kick in until next time. Thanks for the amazing comments and reception so far!

Napoleon leaves Illya at the entrance to the Institute with a brief kiss and a promise to pick up something for dinner on the way home. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come inside?” he asks, tangling his fingers with Illya’s.

Illya rolls his eyes. “As soon as I go inside, I don’t think you will ever let me leave,” he says dryly. “I do have things I need to do today. I’m not completely unemployed.”

Napoleon huffs a laugh. He glances at his phone as it chimes at him. “I should go, I need to get to my lecture,” he says. “See you at home, Peril.” He leans in and presses another kiss to Illya’s lips.

“Love you too, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, and then he turns and walks away onto the streets of London. Napoleon lets himself watch him for a brief moment, before turning into the Institute.

Illya rarely, if ever, steps foot inside the Institute. Napoleon has learnt to not push it by now, to not drag him inside or question it too much. When Napoleon was working there and he was still at UNCLE, Illya thought it was too dangerous to go inside the Institute in case someone watching him linked it to Napoleon, even though Napoleon insisted that anyone with half a brain, even the CIA, could work out they were married and that Napoleon taught at the Institute. Ever since then, it seems that the habit has lingered. Napoleon thinks, from the pieces Illya has given up over the years he’s been at the Institute, that it’s one of the few places they have that isn’t related to their former lives in any way, and Illya somehow feels like stepping inside would compromise that.

It’s a little ridiculous, but then Napoleon supposes that out of all the neuroses and paranoiac tendencies they’ve both brought from the game, this is one of the more innocuous. Besides, if his students see Illya too much, then the betting on when they’ll start pestering him about who his elusive husband is won’t be nearly as interesting.

Napoleon is distracted by thinking about the research chapter he’d been writing this morning and whether he needs to go out to the Louvre sometime soon, and it isn’t until he’s already stepped into his office and put his bag down that he stops short. His eyes flick around the room as he slowly turns on one heel. His hand goes to the small of his back automatically, reaching for a gun in a holster that hasn’t been there for a long time.

If one of his students were to walk into his office, they wouldn’t be able to spot that anything was different, but then none of his students spent well over a decade working for intelligence agencies, and more years running around the world stealing art. Napoleon knows exactly what it looks like when someone has searched a room.

Whoever has been in his office was very good. There’s nothing out of place, nothing disturbed in the desk drawer with the false bottom, no tell-tale dust trails amongst the books on the shelves that Napoleon has purposefully left untouched. But Napoleon has been doing this for a long, long time, and even if he’s a few years out of the game, he knows when he’s right.

He reaches for his phone and hits the second number on speed dial. “Gaby,” he says when she picks up. “You wouldn’t have had any of your rookies try to break into my office to hone their skills today, would you?”

There’s a pause over the phone. “What’s happened?” Gaby asks warily.

Napoleon sighs, putting the phone down on his desk and turning on the speaker. “It was worth a try,” he says as he starts looking over everything on his desk, checking that it’s all there and if anything has been taken. “Someone’s been in my office whilst I was out to lunch with Illya.”

Gaby pauses again. “Is there a threat?” she asks first. “Do I need to be worried?”

Napoleon shakes his head, belatedly realising that Gaby can’t see him. “There’s no apparent threat left behind,” he says, checking the false bottom to the desk drawer and the few papers that he keeps there. They’re unimportant, compared to the stashes he has at home and the various safehouses scattered around the world, but they’re still not something he’s meant to have. But they’re all in the right place, all the markers he left still there. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is that’s worrying him, but there’s something.

He’s been silent for too long, and Gaby clears her throat over the phone. “Sorry,” Napoleon says as he checks another desk drawer. “It doesn’t look like anything’s been taken or disturbed, but someone’s been here.”

“How do you know?” Gaby asks.

At that, Napoleon abruptly pauses. “Call it intuition,” he says eventually. “There’s no absolute proof, Gaby, but I’m damn sure that someone has been here.” He can hear the silence from Gaby, and he rolls his eyes. “I might be out of the game for a few years, but you know that I know what I’m doing,” he snaps. “Someone’s definitely been here.”

“Could have it been any of the other professors?” Gaby asks. “A student, maybe? You are in the middle of a university, darling.”

“My door is locked when I leave, and only I have the key,” Napoleon says. “I stole the extra copy of the key from security, and only Illya has another copy at home. Unless some of my students suddenly learnt how to pick locks without leaving a mark, it wasn’t them.” He looks around the room. “This feels professional, Gaby.”

“Well, I’ll check in with the chatter,” Gaby says. “Make sure that this isn’t anything to do with the job in Vienna. There’s been a little talk about that, from what we can tell, but no more than usual with that type of job.”

“I know, Illya has been keeping half an eye on it,” Napoleon says, as he prowls around his office looking for anything to reassure himself that his instincts are right. “But you have a much longer reach than him.”

“I’ll go get someone on it now,” Gaby says over the phone. “But…Napoleon. Illya talked to me about the argument you had over Oleg.”

Napoleon pauses and tries not to slump against his bookcase as he sighs. “You think I’m being paranoid,” he says over his shoulder, at the phone still sitting on his desk.

“I think that you might be,” Gaby replies honestly. “I know that this funeral didn’t just throw Illya off balance, and I think that you’ve been thinking more about what Oleg said than you’ve let on. Don’t forget, I know you just as well as I know Illya.”

“You also are able to tap our phones,” Napoleon says dryly. Gaby laughs shortly, but he can sense her shaking her head.

“You know I could be right,” she just says. “I will keep an eye out on my end, get someone to check cameras around the Institute and the chatter around your Vienna job, but darling, you have to know that you could just be paranoid.” Napoleon opens his mouth, but almost before he can get a word out Gaby keeps talking. “I know, it’s not paranoia if someone is actually out to get you,” she says dryly. “You wouldn’t know how many times I’ve heard that from you and Illya. But this time, just consider that chances are, nobody is actually out to get you right now.”

Napoleon sighs. “You know I hate it when you’re constantly right,” he says eventually. He slumps in his chair at the desk, staring at his phone. “Keep me informed,” he says. “I’ll keep my eyes out on this end. Better to be cautious than complacent.”

“Without a doubt,” Gaby agrees. “Which is why I’ll watch the chatter for you.” He can hear her turning to talk to someone else on the other end of the phone, her voice hardening into the Director as she orders someone to do something probably well above Napoleon’s pay grade now that he’s retired. It’s a few moments before she comes back. “Oh, and make sure you talk to Illya.”

Napoleon groans. “You don’t have to constantly worry about us being emotionally repressed idiots,” he reminds her. “We are married, you know. You don’t have to worry about this relationship anymore.”

“I spent years watching the two of you completely unable to say even a single word to each other about what this relationship could be,” Gaby says wearily. “ _Years_ , Napoleon. Forgive me for trying to make sure that you two actually talk to each other about these things.” She sighs, a rush of static over the phone. “You have no idea how frustrating it was to watch you two. Even when you finally got together, how long did it take before you weren’t storming out of each other’s apartments and coming to me every week?”

“It wasn’t _every_ week,” Napoleon protests, but he knows it’s weak. “More like every other week at the most. And like I said, we have been married for years now. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Gaby snorts in amusement over the phone. “I’ll always worry a little about the two of you, darling,” she says. “Just as you will always ply me with food and wine in a flimsy pretence to get me to take a little time off from being Director. We’ve known each other for far too long to try and get away with any of these things without knowing what’s going on.”

“Oh, without a doubt,” Napoleon replies. “On that subject, you’re coming over for dinner on Saturday. Illya bought some good vodka, and I have wine that needs drinking.”

“When doesn’t wine need drinking?” Gaby asks, and Napoleon laughs. “Fine, I will try and make sure there are no catastrophes on Saturday so I can make it, but you know the criminal underworld has little regards for dinner dates and plans made in advance.” There’s the sound of someone calling out something in the background of the phone, and Gaby sighs. “And with that, I have to go. Talk to Illya, darling. I’ll keep an eye on the chatter for you.”

“See you soon,” Napoleon replies, and then he just hears the dial tone. He slips the phone back into his pocket, glancing apprehensively around his office. After so long in the game, so many years, he’s familiar with the skitter of paranoia under his skin. But he’s been out for a few years now, and it suddenly worries him that maybe his instincts aren’t quite as sharp as they used to be.

0-o-0-o-0

The sun is setting, the street lamps already turned on and the soft yellow light pooling on the pavements, as Illya lets himself in through the front door. His shoulders drop as soon as he shuts the door and sets the usual security measures, as soon as Laika comes trotting over to snuffle eagerly at his hands in the hope he brought something back for her. He ruffles at her head as he hangs up his coat and heads into his house, glancing out the living room windows to check the street.

He’s not quite sure what has gotten his hackles up, only that he’d found himself checking over his shoulder on the walk home, avoiding the Tube because the idea of the crowds was enough to make that familiar restlessness just about surface under his skin. Illya takes a breath, drops his bag in the living room and heads into the kitchen.

Napoleon looks up from his book to press a kiss to his lips in greetings. “How was training?” he asks, turning a page in his book and reaching for a pencil to mark something down. “There’s some pasta in the pan on the hob, but you might want to heat it up again.”

Illya heads for the stove, turning it back on and poking at the pasta in the pot. “Class was good,” he says over his shoulder. “More people turning up to self-defence now, might have to start running other night in a few weeks.” He glances at Napoleon when he only gets a hum in reply, frowning when he sees the way Napoleon’s pencil is twitching in his hand. “What is it?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

Napoleon gives him a half-hearted glare. “I was going to let you eat something before bringing this up, at least,” he says. “But anyway… I think someone was in my office whilst we were out to lunch.”

Illya can feel his entire body stutter for a moment. He carefully puts down the spoon and turns to face Napoleon. “Do you know who it was?” he asks, mind already turning towards the people that could be a threat to them, who might still want to poke around their lives even after all these years. “Is there a threat?”

“Not that I can see,” Napoleon says steadily. “I couldn’t even find anything misplaced in my office, just a gut feeling that someone had been in there. Nothing was missing, nothing was even disturbed, so either I’m being paranoid…”

“Or they were very good,” Illya finishes for him. He stares at the kitchen table for a moment, jaw clenched. “Does Gaby know?”

“I called her almost as soon as I got into my office,” Napoleon replies. “She’s going to keep an eye on the chatter about that last job we did just in case they’ve actually noticed what we took from them.” Illya nods, wondering whether it had been a bad idea for Napoleon to talk him out of more advanced security measures in his office.

“Look, you’ve said it yourself,” Napoleon says abruptly, with a laugh that’s almost embarrassed. “I can be a bit paranoid.”

Illya frowns again. “You were being paranoid over Oleg and funeral,” he says. “This is different.”

“Not that different,” Napoleon replies. He gets up, reaching for both of Illya’s hands and taking them. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says. “We can keep an eye out, Gaby can keep an eye on the chatter just in case, but I’m sure it isn’t going to be anything. It’s been quiet all these years, there’s no indication that anything is going to happen now.”

He is so sincere that Illya thinks he actually might believe what he’s saying. That is Napoleon’s trouble. He’s always been such a good liar, that silver tongue having gotten them out of trouble time and time again where Gaby’s smarts and Illya’s guns haven’t been enough. Illya still doesn’t know too much about Napoleon’s childhood beyond the basics, but he knows that Napoleon had learnt his arts before even the army got their claws in him, and he’s had many years to perfect it.

But Napoleon’s silver tongue is only so useful when turned onto other people, and on himself it’s as reliable as the handgun Illya once dropped in the Mediterranean and grabbed anyway in a last desperate attempt, which predictably jammed as soon as his finger squeezed the trigger. It had rusted up whilst he had watched, tied to a pipe for three days on the other side of the room. When Napoleon had finally gotten to him and picked the locks around his wrists and ankles, hands steadfastly not trembling as they’d held a small bottle of water to Illya’s lips, Illya had had to make himself walk away from that little handgun, useless on the floor.

Napoleon’s silver tongue has always been his trouble, if his lack of impulse control when it comes to beautiful things is ignored. And Illya knows, has learnt over those long nights trading secrets like ammunition, hunkered in their versions of foxholes and dugouts as they stared out at the proverbial enemy in the treeline, that Napoleon’s silver tongue is good enough to work on himself. He knows, after all these years watching Napoleon’s back and any other part of his body that he liked to recklessly throw into danger, that naivety can come to even the most cynical of spies when wrapped in the right combination of denial and hope. And after all these years of Napoleon as his husband, trying to live out their lives quietly with each other, he knows how much all of this means to Napoleon.

Sometimes, Illya is kept awake at night with the visceral, vicious desire for this to really be their life. Sometimes, late into the night when the darkness bleeds from the walls of the house and all the ghosts under London’s streets seem just that little closer to the surface, he is terrified that he’s dreamt this all, that he’s lying in a coma in a hospital somewhere or is bleeding out in the middle of a desert from a gut shot, and his mind has invented this all for him in the last throes to try and give him something to ease the way.

So, he understands as Napoleon tries to persuade him and himself that he’s probably just being paranoid. Illya lets Napoleon draw him away from the topic with only a little reluctance, heaping pasta onto a plate and trying not to get any on the essays spread out on the kitchen table, and tries to tell himself that Napoleon is probably right. It’s probably nothing.

Ultimately, there’s a hundred to one chance that this might actually be something other than just Napoleon worrying because he can’t help it. A few years ago, those odds would have been enough for Illya to reach out to his back channels, to maybe spend a couple of days checking on old contacts in the web that stretches through the world. But now, they’ve been trying to step away from it all, and maybe those odds aren’t good enough to risk upending anything they’ve been working for.

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby curses, stumbling on the path. “If I trip over your damn dog one more time,” she threatens Illya, “I’ll drop her in the Thames.”

“You love Laika,” Illya replies, easily dodging the excited dog jumping around his feet. “Think of it as extra stimulus for training. If you can dodge the dog whilst running, then you can dodge bullets.”

Gaby huffs, not quite enough air in her lungs to actually laugh at Illya. She speeds up as they round a corner, keeping pace with Illya on the inside of the track. “Somehow, I don’t think the two are much the same,” she says. “Bullets don’t generally slobber all over your expensive suits, for one.”

Illya just grunts and picks up the pace a little. Gaby heaves a sigh, but follows him anyway as they run around the park. Laika follows and nips at their heels when she feels they aren’t going fast enough. “I will aim a kick at her if you keep teaching her to nip at heels,” Gaby warns Illya as they run.

Illya snorts. “Half of people in this park would have you arrested for abuse if you did that,” he mutters between breaths. “You know how precious city people get about animals.” He nods at a woman walking her dog, the dog wearing some awful frilly coat. “They are dogs, not dress up dolls.”

“Yes, yes, I know how much you hate Londoners sometimes,” Gaby says. “And how much it would be improved if everyone was Russian. I know. You talk about it a lot.” She heaves a breath, spending a few moments just catching her breath before trying to talk again. Illya, the annoying superhuman that he is, is breathing as evenly as always. Gaby supposes that compared to everything him and Napoleon used to get up to, running around a park and trying not to trip over a dog is nothing.

Eventually, though, even Illya is breathing hard. They come to a stop in a more secluded part of the park, and Illya stretches out, reaching down for the ground with a quiet groan that Gaby pretends she doesn’t hear. She’s too busy trying to ignore the twinges in her hips that tell her she really should be going back to that physiotherapist. Being a spy isn’t forgiving on their bodies, in any way it’s looked at. She can see one of the raised scars just visible as Illya’s shirt slips, a twisting sliver of skin from a serrated knife that had just missed anything important but made him bleed enough that when they’d found him, semi-conscious from blood loss and still managing to snap the neck of the woman he was fighting, even Gaby had been worried.

Illya had been in the hospital for five days for that one, an infection slowing everything down and making him barely able to get out of bed without Napoleon half-carrying him. Napoleon hadn’t let on how much he had been worried, but Gaby had spotted it easily in the tense set of his shoulders, the way he’d chewed the inside of his cheek as he’d watched Illya’s fevered dreams.

Gaby tries to get some oxygen back into her lungs, and it’s only because she’s straightened up to breathe deeper that she sees Illya glance around them furtively. She checks their surroundings herself, because she is a spy and she knows how dangerous her world can be, before turning to him. “Why are you being more paranoid than usual?” she asks, but even as she’s speaking she realises the answer. “Ah. Solo spoke to you, I take it?”

“We are married, we speak every day,” Illya points out. “That’s what most couples do.” He stretches out his back with a wince. “But yes, he spoke to me about thinking someone was in his office.”

“And?” Gaby asks when Illya doesn’t say anything else. “I’m keeping an eye on the chatter, I always do, but he must have told you what I think.”

“That he’s paranoid?” Illya asks. “Yes, I know. He is trying to convince himself of same thing right now.” He huffs a breath and ruffles at Laika’s fur when she trots over, a stick in her mouth and her tail wagging so hard her whole body is wriggling.

“Really?” Gaby asks. “He seemed pretty dismissive of the idea when he called me in his office.”

Illya shrugs. A sharp word makes Laika drop the stick and she sits at Illya’s feet, trying to stay still whilst her whole body wriggles with anticipation. Illya reaches down to pick it up and Gaby doesn’t miss how he glances sharply around the park again.

“You know how much he wants this life,” he says, hurling the stick across the park with a grunt. Laika takes off, a grey streak across the grass, and Illya watches her go. “Cowboy is very good at lying,” he says eventually. “Especially to himself, especially when the lie is something he really wants to believe. He’ll be on guard, he’s too good at what we did to not be on guard now, but he doesn’t want it to be true, so part of him will pretend that he knows it is not true.”

Laika hurtles back towards them and practically throws the stick at Illya’s feet. Illya gives her a look but bends down and picks it up anyway to throw again. “What do you think?” Gaby asks as they watch Laika run. “Do you think he’s just being paranoid?”

Illya hums. “I think he is worried, after everything with the funeral and Oleg and that argument, that I will think he is being paranoid and get annoyed. So, he tries to pretend it is nothing.” He snatches up the stick as Laika comes back to them to throw it again. “I don’t want him getting worked up over this and it upsetting everything, so I won’t do anything much about it. Chances are it’s nothing. And if it’s not, then I will touch in with old contacts, remind them what happens if they try to take something that is mine.” Gaby gives him a look, but Illya just returns it with years of practice. “He is mine,” he tells Gaby quietly. “Anyone who forgets that will be sorry.”

Gaby’s look is parts fondness and a long-learnt irritation. “I don’t think anyone is going to forget that anytime soon,” she tells him. “And I think if you were going to be in trouble, we would see something more. There’s always something, some rumours or chatter circulating on some channel. It can be hard to find, but we would find it.”

Illya nods. Laika drops the stick at his feet again but he leaves it and starts walking. Gaby follows, whistling for Laika to join them, and it’s a testament to how well Illya has trained the dog that she follows with only a little hesitation. Gaby links her arm with his, regardless of how sweaty and flushed they both are from the run. “I do know how much this means to you,” she says after a few minutes. “This retirement, this life, whatever you like to call it. I watched you fight for it, after all.”

“Stood on the sideline and looked annoyed, you mean,” Illya mutters. Gaby gives him a fond look, just to see if he’ll blush like he usually does when they talk about how he and Napoleon made it all the way here. He might do, but it’s hard to tell with the flush on his cheeks from the run.

“Anyway,” Gaby says. “You know I would do close to anything to help you keep all of this. And I will keep an eye on the chatter, just like I promised Solo. But I think that you are going to be okay with this.” She points a finger at Illya. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m probably right.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “I’m not giving you any look,” he says, but it’s half-hearted at best. “I know you are probably right. But we should not be complacent.”

Gaby hums. “You are not a spy,” she reminds him. “Not in profession, at least.” A teasing smile curls her lips, and she nudges Illya in the ribs. “You’re almost a civilian now.”

“God forbid,” Illya mutters, just to make Gaby laugh. He slips the lead on Laika and they head out of the park through London, back towards Marylebone and the Thames, but he can’t help glancing over his shoulder as they walk through the city that he’s slowly come to love so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was very complicated and took me a while, working out the dynamics of this chapter, how Napoleon and Illya would actually respond. I hope that I've got it right, for this AU setting where they are trying so hard to have normal civilian lives. So I hope I got it right! Hopefully the motivations and characters will all fall into place as the story continues.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is where the real plot begins to kick in, but if you're expecting answers at this point in the story, then you're going to have to wait a little longer- this story is long, and the answers won't come easily! That said, if you have any ideas or theories then I would love to hear them, and maybe give you some cryptic clues that will infuriate you as you try to work out what I mean...

Napoleon shrugs off his coat and the odd feeling that had him turn left randomly as he was walking back from the Institute, walking a staggered path through the city, occasionally turning down one of the streets where all those infuriatingly trendy bars are and mingling with the evening crowds. He hadn’t been quite sure what had made him do it, only that he’d been thinking about that damn warning Oleg had given Illya, wondering if he really had just been paranoid that someone had been in his office. He’s well aware that he’s most likely worrying over nothing, but with Illya not with him, he can indulge in his worry for a little bit. Just until he gets home, at least.

There’s a sudden bark as Laika, the awful guard dog that she is, realises there is someone in the house. Napoleon crouches down to greet her and she all but launches herself into his arms, a wriggling grey mass that falls over his feet. “Down,” Napoleon says with a quiet laugh, and she calms down enough to sit in front of him. He ruffles at her ears. “Where’s my husband, then?”

There’s a note on the kitchen table in Illya’s terrible handwriting, but Napoleon supposes that at least it’s in English, and not Russian cursive. When they have days like this, Napoleon’s classes and Illya’s time at the dojo making them ships in the night, Napoleon can always judge Illya’s day by his handwriting. On a bad day, PTSD trying to rear its head and drag Illya back under with it, his handwriting gets neater until it’s all capitals, like it was in the reports that they filed for the missions that went wrong. When it’s a good day Illya’s handwriting turns sloppy, his letters bleeding into one another until Napoleon is one of the few people who can actually read it.

Thankfully, the good days outnumber the bad twenty to one, at this point. And when Illya is in a particularly good mood, and likes to give Napoleon a challenge, he leaves the note in Russian cursive. Napoleon still maintains, even after having learnt how to somewhat read Russian cursive because it was that or panic over his husband’s whereabouts, that it’s nothing more than doodles invented to confuse other people.

_Mark is back_ , the note reads, though Illya’s scribbled writing makes _Mark_ look more like _monk_. _Gone for drinks at Barley to catch up, will be back late. Leftover food in pot on stove. Love._

Napoleon smiles fondly at the note, the way that he can see the Cyrillic still in Illya’s handwriting, the way he signs off. There’s a stew in the pot on the stove, something that is one of the few things Illya can reliably cook on his own, along with dumplings. Napoleon turns the stove back on and turns on the radio to listen to the evening news as he waits for the stew to heat up. The most interesting thing is something to do with British politics and the usual farce that it is, and by American standards it’s nothing.

If it were in America, Napoleon thinks idly as he stirs the stew, the two main opposition parties would be at each other’s throats, and the media would be having a field day. As it’s Britain, there’s just a few snide remarks from the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition about each other’s policies, and the merest hint of sarcasm from the BBC newsreader. Napoleon pities the BBC reporters, though they are undoubtedly better at their jobs. At least the American ones can have some fun with the stories they get.

He glances in the fridge briefly, making a shopping list in his head when he notices that they’re nearly out of milk again. There’s a quiet quirk to his lips as he does so. Napoleon can’t quite pinpoint the day when this became routine, when he comes home to only the dog in the house and doesn’t instinctively think something is wrong but just looks for Illya’s note on the kitchen table and the handwriting to judge his mood. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to quite work out the day where this quiet slide into domesticity began, and if he traces it far back enough he’s sure he could take it all the way back to that first day at UNCLE, where he walked through the door to see Illya already unpacking in their office.

He’s peeling an orange and trying to convince himself that he’s done enough exercise recently to warrant the tub of Ben and Jerry’s that sits in the freezer, when his phone buzzes and keeps buzzing. Illya’s name flashes up on the screen, and Napoleon swipes across the screen with the finger that’s least covered in the juices of the orange. “Hey, Peril,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Napoleon,” says a voice that is distinctly not Illya’s. “It’s Mark.”

Something cold and quiet slithers down Napoleon’s back. “Why are you answering his phone?” he asks, his voice only just holding even. “What is it?”

“It’s Illya,” Mark answers, and Napoleon hears through the ringing in his ears that’s just becoming audible the waver of Mark’s voice, the catch on Illya’s name. “Someone’s taken Illya.”

His breath freezes in his lungs. There’s a litany of denial suddenly on his lips, flooding up from somewhere deep in his chest, and they gather on his tongue as he stares at nothing. He can hear the thud of his heart, and with every sickening beat that he can hear reverberating in his ears there’s another plea to a god he doesn’t believe in that this isn’t true.

“Napoleon,” Mark says through the phone, and Napoleon can hear him but can’t seem to find the words to respond. His tongue is too crowded with words he can’t even begin to speak. _Please_ , he thinks, the words only half-formed in his mind. _Please, I am begging you. Don’t let this be happening._

“Napoleon!” Mark snaps. There’s authority suddenly in the tone of his voice, the sharpness of his voice getting inside Napoleon’s head and flipping that switch that had been left dormant for years, just as Mark had intended it to do. Even without thinking about it Napoleon straightens, rusted gears turning until he falls into place, back into the mindset that was so familiar for so many years.

“What happened?” he asks. He gets to his feet and runs upstairs, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. “When did this happen?”

“Not ten minutes ago, I think,” Mark says, his voice quiet and efficient, sounding just like the SAS captain that Napoleon had first met. “Walking through the shortcut back from the pub towards yours. Ambush, by at least three masked people from a nondescript white van. Two people grabbed Illya, and then someone else knocked me down. I lost consciousness for approximately five minutes, and when I woke up there was no sign of anyone.”

Napoleon stalks into the bedroom and reaches under the bed, feeling for the handles of the go bag that he has had stashed under there for years. It’s a little dusty when he pulls it out, but he ignores it and heads for the walk-in closet. “I’ve checked the scene of the attack, but there was nothing useful there,” Mark tells him as Napoleon opens a false wall and stares at the array of guns there, wondering what will be most useful.

“How the hell would they subdue him?” he asks Mark as he decides on a couple of handguns. “Leaving no sign of it behind?”

“I don’t know, but they got me in about thirty seconds,” Mark replies. “This was planned, this was professional. They even dumped his phone with me, rather than risk anyone tracking it. Whoever has done this, they have a plan.”

Napoleon breathes in, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye. He squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment, just to try and drag up the ease with which he had navigated the possible end of the world over and over again at UNCLE. If he stops to think, he knows that the lump of fear and worry that’s trying to strangle his throat will climb up and then drag him back down with it until he’s completely out of his mind and useless.

“Napoleon?” Mark asks cautiously.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Napoleon replies. He zips up his go bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Where are you right now?” He pauses. “Christ, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Head hurts, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” Mark replies. “I’m on Thayer Street, with the evening crowds. Outside Pachamama. Played the clueless tourist and asked a few people for directions, mentioned I was waiting for a friend.” Now that he says it, Napoleon can hear the noise of the London evening crowd around him as they go from restaurants to bars. Napoleon would have gone the same way if he’d been there, been obvious without drawing too much attention. There is safety in a crowd of clueless civilians.

“Stay where you are,” he says, running back down the stairs and ignoring the way his bag digs into his back. “I’ll come and get you. We’ll head straight for UNCLE headquarters.”

“I will leave a trail if I have to move,” Mark just says. “Be safe. Check your car before you get in it.”

Napoleon just makes some sort of noise in agreement, and then Mark hangs up. He grabs his keys, just remembering to shut Laika up in the right parts of the house before setting off the alarm and locking the front door behind him. The car is clean, and it’s less than a minute before he’s peeling away from the kerb and gunning the car down the road.

He barely remembers driving through the streets of London, clueless civilians wandering down the streets past him. They have no idea, he thinks, of how precarious everything is, how easily someone could tip it over the edge. Not even out of malice, but just out of ignorance or complacency or just sheer bad luck. There’s always someone out there willing to do anything for power or money or just because they can.

He’s alone in the car. For the first thirty seconds he can hold it together, focus on the mindset that he had cultivated for decades without even meaning to, at first, but because it had been the only way to survive the war and the CIA and then UNCLE with his brain halfway intact. But the gears are rusted with disuse, the compartmentalisation of everything slipping from his grip every time he tries to shore it up. He’s been out of the game too long.

With a ruthlessness that he hasn’t had to drag up in a long time, he shoves all the extraneous thoughts away. There’s still a pulse in his ears, every thud trying to persuade him that this isn’t really happening, that this can’t be happening, but Napoleon knows the falseness of its beat.

Mark is waiting outside Pachamama. To a civilian he looks like no more than someone waiting for a friend, but Napoleon notices as soon as he pulls up on the kerb the way he’s found himself a corner with sightlines of the entire street, the slouch that isn’t a slouch at all. He heads for the car a tense minute after Napoleon pulls up, slipping into the front passenger seat without a word. Napoleon pulls away and drives steadily down the street.

It’s silent until they’re almost heading over the bridge towards the south bank. Mark breaks the silence first, slumping in the seat and pressing a hand to the back of his head. “Fuck,” he mutters when his hand comes away bloody. “You don’t have a first aid kit in the car, do you?”

“Under one of the back seats,” Napoleon replies promptly. “But we’re only five minutes out from UNCLE.” He pauses, and then curses abruptly. “I need to call Gaby and tell her what’s happened.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Mark. “Second number on speed dial.”

Mark makes the call and puts it on speaker. “Darling,” Gaby answers. “What’s the call for, I’m a little busy with a mess in Ecuador.”

Napoleon’s throat works as the words become stuck on his tongue. “Gaby,” he manages to get out, his voice suddenly hoarse. He forces the words out because he doesn’t have any other option. “Gaby, Illya’s been taken. Someone’s taken him.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath that comes as a rush of static over the phone, and a short pause. “Where are you now?” Gaby asks briskly. “Are you safe?”

“We’re driving to headquarters right now,” Napoleon replies. “Five minutes out.”

“Who is _we_?” Gaby asks, her voice beginning to verge on suspicion. “Who are you with?”

“Mark,” Napoleon says, glancing over at the man as he tries to see if the back of his head is still bleeding. “He was with Illya when he was taken. Former SAS, if you’re thinking that we can’t trust him. He’s the one whose ass we saved in Somalia.”

“Right,” Gaby says. He hears her turn away from the phone and bark something to someone else. Napoleon can hear his own name and Illya’s, and he grips the steering wheel hard enough for the leather to creak. “I’m following you on the street cameras right now,” Gaby says, coming back to the phone. “Agents on the door know you are coming in. Where was Illya taken? Can we get footage of it?”

Mark clears his throat. “We were ambushed,” he says. His voice is beginning to waver slightly, and Napoleon points at the glovebox of the car. Mark digs around it to find a sleeve of tissues, and he presses one to the back of his head with a wince. “Walking back from the Barley pub in Marylebone. It was the road running north-south alongside Paddington Street Gardens- fuck, I can’t remember-”

“Ashland Place,” Gaby says over the phone. “I’ll get someone on the street cameras, see what they can find.” There’s a pause, and the sound of her typing. “You’re nearly here. Get up to my office as soon as you arrive.”

“I know the way,” Napoleon replies, and Gaby hangs up. Napoleon breathes out. He concentrates on threading his way through the incessant London traffic and not mowing down any pedestrians, because to think of anything else right now might end up with him crashing the car.

Distantly, he wonders how the hell he completed all the missions that went so disastrously wrong when right now, he can barely drive ten minutes across London with the knowledge that Illya has been taken. With their histories, their past lives, Napoleon can think of too many reasons why this might have happened, who would benefit from having them removed or could use them to threaten UNCLE, or who just had a vendetta to fulfil.

“Napoleon,” Mark says sharply, and Napoleon realises his knuckles are white against the steering wheel and that he’s about to go right over a zebra crossing where a couple of kids are waiting. He slams on the brakes with a curse, the car lurching to a stop. Mark says nothing, says nothing even as Napoleon guns the car forwards again, turns into an underground parking garage and keeps going down. Napoleon can see him noticing almost every layer of security as they go further and further down into the heart of UNCLE, the cameras watching them at every turn.

There’s an agent waiting for them at a nondescript door. “Agent Solo,” she says as they get out of the car. “And Captain Evans. Come inside.”

“I’m not an agent anymore,” Napoleon says sharply. “Don’t call me that. Is there any news on the street cameras?”

“The Director will know,” the agent replies smoothly as they head into the lift. “We’ll head straight up for a full debrief of the situation.” Napoleon all but snarls at her, but a warning look from Mark just about holds his tongue.

The corridors of UNCLE are horribly familiar as he walks down them. Agents step out of their way as they walk past, a nod or two from familiar faces. Word seems to spread in front of them, breaking across the bow and leaving ripples in their wake. Napoleon can see them staring at the empty space next to him where Illya should be walking, can hear the murmurs that start as soon as they pass him.

The walk to the Director’s office is ingrained in Napoleon’s feet, and he doesn’t have to pay attention at all as they make their way through the building. They pass up one of the staircases, Napoleon’s hand trailing along the metal banister as he looks down to the open atrium below. Here was where Illya had managed to trip Napoleon up on the stairs as they ran, late, to a briefing. Up on that balcony above them was one of the many places they’d stolen a few kisses, late at night whilst most of the building was quiet. There, as they walk through the floor towards the large office at the end, the one Waverly had filled with old books and MI6 memorabilia, is the office that he and Illya had shared, the one that later became Illya’s when Napoleon first retired.

Napoleon has a sudden urge to open the door, the keyhole still nicked where Napoleon had been trying to refine Illya’s lockpicking skills. He has this bizarre feeling that if he did it would all be the same as the day he’d left, the picture of him and Illya still on the desk, next to the little wooden fox that Illya had carved for him on a boring stakeout.

He knows, he is sure, that the fox is now sitting on top of the chest of drawers in their bedroom at home, but for a split second he can see himself opening the door to see it right there on the desk again.

How many times had he walked these carpets, how often had he and Illya dragged themselves back here after yet another mission, collapsing on the couch in their office and waking up to find Gaby there with a cup of tea and some files as she lounged in Napoleon’s chair. How much of themselves have been left behind in pieces in this building, trodden into the carpet or forgotten behind the couch cushions, dropped behind them in their wake like the illegible mission reports they scrawled in that office.

Napoleon walks right past his old office. The door ahead of them opens before he gets there.

“Napoleon,” Gaby says, and then he’s embracing her, tucking his head into her shoulder. Just for a moment the familiar smell of her perfume and the way she has to stand on tiptoe to hug him properly is enough to dim the ringing in his ears, enough for him to just breathe. It only lasts for a moment, though, and then she pulls back and he can see the Director of UNCLE in front of him.

She turns to Mark and holds out her hand. “Captain Evans,” she says. “Welcome to UNCLE.”

“Former Captain,” Mark says. “Thank you, Ms…?”

“Director Teller,” Gaby says, a glint in her eye. “Come on, we have a hell of a lot of work to do.” She ushers them into her office and takes a seat on the other side of the desk. There’s a horrible moment of double vision that makes Napoleon blink and feel dizzy. For so many years he watched Waverly sit there, Gaby on the other side with him and Illya. Now Gaby is on the other side of the desk, and there’s a huge, aching hole next to him where Illya should be sitting.

Gaby is all Director when she speaks. “We’ll get him back,” she says. “Tell me what happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the reasons you won't get answers straight away is that this story mostly takes place from the point of view of the non-abducted person, within UNCLE. I wanted to try and write a little bit of suspense, make the readers guess and write more twists into the story (also I wanted to be mean and leave you all guessing for a while). So you aren't going to see much of Illya for a few chapters, but he will be back later!
> 
> Remember, this story will have a happy ending, though it will take a long time to get there...
> 
> All of the places mentioned in London are real- I spent quite a while on google maps for this story. Russian cursive really is that difficult to read as well.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I honestly didn't mean to take this long publishing the next chapter, but it was my sister's birthday this weekend and she had a party at home with about 30 of her university friends, and I spent most of Friday and Saturday baking, and then most of Sunday in a stupor on the sofa, binge-watching Bodyguard on the BBC.
> 
> Anyway, here's a few more clues about what's going on. I love hearing your evolving theories about who's taken Illya and what's happening, so please do tell me if you think you have an idea! In other news, I've finally gotten over some of my writer's block on the Halloween fic, and have written a good few thousand words over the past two days (another reason I forgot to put up this chapter). It still has a way to go, but I'm slightly more hopeful about it actually being finished for Halloween. Thanks to somedrunkpirate for listening to me talk about the plot until I got it worked out in my head.

The technician presses pause, and the screen flickers to go still. “That’s all there is,” she says. “We don’t have the attack itself, they were in a blind spot.”

“They must have known that,” Mark says, staring at the screen. “They must have. That’s too good of a coincidence.” He rewinds the footage over the technician’s shoulder, watching as the van drives away in reverse, as he and Illya walk backwards out of the street entrance. “Is there seriously nothing in this?”

“We’ll keep analysing this,” Gaby says. “See what we can find. We can track the van that was used as the probable vehicle in this. There’s a team listening in to the international chatter as well, touching in with contacts. I’ve tried to get hold of Oleg to see if this has anything to do with his side, but he isn’t answering.” She flicks a lock of hair that has escaped her ponytail out of her eye. “Gone dark for a mission, I’ve been told, but whether that is true or not…”

Napoleon keeps staring at the screen, now paused on Mark and Illya’s back as they walk down the street. He would recognise the set of Illya’s shoulders anyway, even on the grainy camera footage that they’ve found. “I might have an idea,” he says slowly. “Where’s Illya’s phone?”

Mark hands it over. Napoleon flicks through the contacts and does something complicated that Gaby can’t quite follow to get up another page of numbers, with no names attached. He hits one of the numbers and sets the phone on speaker. The number rings for a tense few seconds, and then clicks as someone answers.

“ _Da_?” someone asks. Gaby’s eyes narrow as she gives Napoleon a look, but Napoleon completely ignores it.

“This is Napoleon Solo, don’t hang up,” Napoleon says quickly. “I’m calling on behalf of Illya.”

There’s an intake of breath, a rush of static over the phone. “Make it quick,” is the response, the voice now speaking English but with a heavy Russian accent. “What do you want.”

“Illya has been taken,” Napoleon says, the words sticking in his throat once again. “It was a professional ambush, at least three people. We don’t know anymore.”

“What do you want?” the person asks again, and Gaby can see Napoleon struggle to contain his frustration. He braces himself on the table, leaning over the phone as if the person on the other end can see him.

“Were you involved?” Napoleon asks. “Or your agency, your government, whatever you want to think of it. Do you know anything?” Gaby can hear the hint of desperation in his voice he is so desperately trying to hide, can see it in the way that his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the edge of the table.

There’s another pause on the other end of the line. “I can’t help you,” they say eventually, and Napoleon hisses in frustration.

“I promised Illya I wouldn’t do this, but fuck it,” he snaps. “I’m calling in his debt to you. You owe him, and you damn well know who I am and what I mean to him. I’m calling in that debt.”

“What do you want from me?” they ask.

“Some damn information about where my husband is and who the hell has taken him!” Napoleon shouts at the phone. “You must know something, you must have heard something at least!”

There’s a long pause over the phone. “Napoleon Solo, out of retirement and calling in his husband’s debt,” they say slowly, a hint of amusement to their voice. “You must really be desperate.”

“Do you have any useful information or not?” Napoleon snaps.

There’s a pause over the phone that’s long enough for Napoleon to tap at the screen and make sure the call is still connected. “I cannot help you,” they say eventually. Gaby isn’t sure whether she’s imagining the tinge of regret colouring their voice, but the Russian accent makes it difficult to tell.

“Oh, come on,” Napoleon says sharply. “You know that I know who you are, and I know just how much you hear. This was an ambush. It was planned, it was professional. We’ve had someone on our tail for nearly two weeks now. There would have been chatter, and you might have heard it. Or your fucking government could be involved because they can’t ever seem to leave Illya well enough alone-”

“Solo,” the voice on the other end of the phone says quietly. “Listen to me. Listen carefully. I cannot help you. _I cannot_.” Napoleon pauses, breaths coming harsh between clenched teeth. “I am sorry, Solo,” they say, and they sound genuine. “Consider my debt to Illya still unfilled. I want to hear him call on it himself.”

They hang up. For a moment there is quiet, everyone staring at the phone lying on the table. Napoleon slowly lets go of the table, the blood returning to his knuckles, and he stares absently at the table.

“Well they were useless,” Mark comments, more to break the silence than anything else. “Who were they?”

Napoleon breathes out slowly, shaking his head as he straightens up. “It’s no surprise you can’t get hold of Oleg,” he says to Gaby, his voice absent as he stares at nothing, thinking. He reaches out and pockets Illya’s phone, seemingly without thinking about it. Gaby gives him a questioning look, and Napoleon shakes his head again.

“It’s the Russians,” he says quietly. “It has to be. She wouldn’t have said that if she didn’t know something.”

“Mate, you’ve lost me,” Mark says. He steps up to Napoleon, gripping his shoulder in an effort to be reassuring. “Who was that, and what did she say to make you think the Russians have anything to do with this?”

“She is an old contact of Illya’s,” Napoleon explains. He starts moving around the office, grabbing a laptop and opening it up before moving away again to something else, moving more because he can’t stay still than because he has anything useful that he can do. “I can’t tell you who she is, but she knows the workings of the FSB and SVR better than most.” He slips a hand into his pocket, pulling out Illya’s phone and flipping it in his hand. “She told me she couldn’t help me. Not that she wouldn’t, but that she couldn’t.”

“You think she’s been ordered not to say anything,” Gaby says. “That there’s a hush order from higher up.”

Napoleon nods. “I know why she is in debt to Illya, I know what he did for her,” he says. “She wouldn’t have turned that down unless she had no other choice.” He turns to Gaby. “Either Oleg is behind this, or he knows who is and is covering for them, for whatever reason.”

“This is a start,” Gaby says firmly. She rounds a table to stand next to Napoleon, her presence alone a slight comfort as Napoleon stares at the table, unable to think of much else but what could be happening to Illya right now, where he could be, who could have taken him. “We will find him,” Gaby says to him, her voice low. “We will get him back.” For a moment, her mask of Director slips and there’s a sharp viciousness in her voice, that fire that has seen her through so much already. Abruptly, it reminds Napoleon of that dark mechanics in Berlin, the smell of engine oil and grease, that bizarre chase through the streets.

Napoleon breathes out and tries to make himself believe her. It doesn’t quite take.

“Mark,” he says eventually, turning to him. “I’m so fucking sorry you’ve been caught up in all of this.”

Mark just shakes his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop them,” he tells Napoleon. “I’ll get in touch with some of my contacts around London, get the word around quietly. Send me details of the van and I can have my contacts keep an eye out for it. It’s the least I can do.”

Napoleon nods. “Actually, there’s one more thing I need you to do for me,” he says, and he digs his house keys out of his pocket, handing them over. “Someone needs to look after the damn dog.”

Despite everything, Mark almost laughs at that. “I’ll look after her until this whole thing is over,” he says. “One less thing you have to worry about.” He pulls Napoleon into a brief embrace and then leaves, threading his way through the desks across the open office until he disappears into a lift.

Napoleon looks down at his phone with gritted teeth. “I need to call my department head at the Institute, make up some bullshit story about why I won’t be in,” he mutters. “Shit, and Maja at the dojo, give her some reason why Illya isn’t around.” He catches Gaby’s questioning look, and somehow there’s a flash of anger at her expression. “What?” he snaps. “We have a life, Gaby! We can’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice and disappear halfway around the world like we used to.”

He knows Gaby well enough to see the flinch in her expression, even though she doesn’t move. Napoleon doesn’t think he’d ever be able to live again like he did as a spy, not even able to commit to a weekly drawing class because that was too much, because they had to be separate from everything around them so that they could jump on a plane to go and stop the next megalomaniac.

Gaby clears her throat, knocking Napoleon out of his own thoughts. “I will call Joanna at the Institute and explain the bare details,” she says. “She’ll understand.” She gives Napoleon a look at his confused expression. “She was MI5, you idiot. I can’t believe you never worked it out.”

“I don’t run background checks on every single person I run into,” Napoleon snaps back at her. “I tend to assume now that most of the people that I meet are, in fact, civilians. You know, seeing as we were meant to be fucking civilians!” He runs his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face for the brief sting across his scalp that grounds him. “Just…call her in the morning before classes start. I’ll text Maja.”

Gaby nods. She’s about to say something when a harried-looking agent rushes through the office and heads straight for her, manila folder clutched in her hand. “Director, there’s been a development in the Valkyrie operation. Agent Oleyo is requesting permission to break cover and pursue-” She breaks off abruptly, eyeing Napoleon. “I…does he have clearance to hear this, Director?”

Gaby looks over at Napoleon. “I’m sorry, I have to go and deal with this,” she says. “There will be agents monitoring all lines and chatter relating to Illya, tracking the van that took him and searching CCTV for any indication that might help find him. But there is nothing more we can do right now.”

“Seriously?” Napoleon asks. “You, the person who helped me break into that institute in Tokyo because you got impatient with going by the book? You’re telling me there’s nothing else we can do right now?” He scoffs, and grabs his coat from the back of a chair he’d flung it over. “If you’re not going to help, then I’ll go and fucking do this myself.”

Gaby is standing in front of him before he’s even taken two steps towards the door. “Your husband is missing,” she says. “And you are not able to think straight right now, no matter how much you try and convince yourself.” She fixes Napoleon with a look that makes him wilt before he remembers that he’s angry at her, and he manages to glare back. It does nothing against the impenetrable wall that is Gaby.

“You cannot take on the entire criminal underworld on your own in a desperate effort to find Illya,” she tells him. “You know how these things work. Even if you’ve spent a few years not actively playing the game, you know that sometimes the only thing you can do is wait for more information.” She takes the coat out of Napoleon’s hands and puts it back over the chair. “I will have one of the cots set up in an empty office. You’re staying here, where I know you aren’t going to do something stupid and suicidal and where you will actually be able to find out what’s happening. And you’re not going to argue with me over this.”

“You’re not my boss, Gaby,” Napoleon snaps. “You’ve never been my boss. I don’t even fucking work here.”

“I was your handler in all but name for years, you idiot,” Gaby snaps back. “And you are still on the books as an agent here, just so I can stop the CIA from hounding you every second of the day, which means that yes, I am your boss! And you are damn well staying in this building until we know more.”

Napoleon stares at her. “I’m still an agent here?” he asks, his voice blank with shock.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why the CIA didn’t try and blackmail you into working for them as soon as you retired?” Gaby asks. “I made sure Waverly arranged it so that the CIA or any other agency couldn’t come after you, and I kept you on the books when I took over.”

Napoleon stares at her some more. “You did that for me?” he asks.

“Of course I did, you idiot,” Gaby says, her voice softening. “Now, you are going to go and get some sleep if you can, and I am going to go and deal with this Valkyrie mess and throttle whoever decided to give it such a stupid codename. If anything happens, anything at all, I promise that someone will come and get you.”

Napoleon can’t do anything but nod. He’s desperate to ask her if this is all going to be okay, if he’ll have Illya back in a few hours and they can forget all about it. He’s desperate to want this to end, but he knows he can’t ask her to promise anything. In this world, nobody can promise anything like that.

There’s no point even arguing with Gaby, so he gives in and lets an agent shepherd him off to an empty office with one of the cots set up that are probably responsible for more back problems brought down to Medical than any missions. Gaby disappears in a whirl of manila folders and harried agents flocking around her, the veritable eye of the storm as they start talking about things way beyond Napoleon’s clearance.

His treacherous brain still hasn’t quite managed to realise just yet that Illya is gone. Back in the old haunts of UNCLE headquarters, Napoleon is half convinced that Illya is just somewhere else in the building. He’ll have gone somewhere quiet to write up his mission report, fed up with Napoleon trying to flirt with him to distract him from writing it, or he’ll be down in Medical, sleeping off another concussion whilst Napoleon writes up the expenses report and tries to charge Waverly for another suit lost to the cause.

Waverly hasn’t been the Director here for well over a year, but his office is still there at the end of the corridor, the carpet still that weird beige colour that doesn’t quite hide the blood spots from the various escapades over the years. Napoleon half believes that, if he goes down to the third floor and jimmies open the back door to the lab that nobody ever properly locks, he’ll find Illya hidden away in some corner as he fiddles with tech that isn’t quite up to his standards, the familiar smell of solder in the air.

It feels like the plot of a bad fantasy novel, like the ones that Illya picks up but never quite buys because after reading so many Pratchett novels it’s easy, apparently, to become spoiled for the rest of them. Napoleon feels like some vengeful wizard has picked them up and thrown him and Illya back in time, back to the days he’d been trying so hard to leave behind him.

It isn’t fair.

He should know by now that fairness means absolutely nothing when it comes to the games they play, but there’s a small voice in his head that sounds like the child he barely remembers. He lies there staring at the back of the office door, and he can hear that treacherous voice in his head, in time with the heartbeat that thuds in his ears, until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon's reactions are somewhat all over the place, but remember, he's been trying very hard to be a civilian for the past few years. It's not easy for him to just slip back into the spy mindset.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have had one person, so far, guess why Illya has been taken! I have left a clue somewhere that will explain a significant amount, so congrats to that one person (their guess isn't in the comments either, so no luck looking through there). I love hearing all your theories though, so keep them coming!
> 
> More angst in this chapter, and more Napoleon- I promise that we will get to Illya soon enough, but don't hold out much hope for finding out why he's been taken from his point of view, for reasons that will soon become clear, he doesn't really have any idea what is going on.

There’s a knock at the door that seems almost apprehensive. Napoleon jolts from sleep in a few moments, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Still shaking off the remnants of sleep he stumbles to his feet, almost tripping over the blankets now pooling on the floor. He wrenches open the door to a young agent standing on the other side, fist still raised to knock again.

“Well?” he snaps when the agent just stands there and looks at him nervously. “Is there news?”

“Uh, the tech team, they’ve traced the van that was used to take Agent Kuryakin,” the agent says. Napoleon can feel his glare deepen as they call Illya an agent, as if they’d never left the halls of this building to try and find their own lives. “They’ve found it parked two streets away from an abandoned warehouse. CCTV has indistinct footage of people moving into it about five hours ago.”

Napoleon glances at his watch. It’s nearly five in the morning, not that it’s at all obvious from the constant dim lighting of the corridors. “So what’s happening?” he asks the agent. “Is a tac team being put together?”

The agent’s glance away down the corridor is all the conformation he needs. Napoleon grabs his go bag from where he’d left it by the cot and checks that he has his tactical gear in there. “I suppose they haven’t moved the ready room since I was last here,” he says as he pushes past the agent and heads down the corridor. Technically, the room is called something like the tactical response preparation office, but nobody can ever be bothered to say that. Napoleon used to stash chocolate bars in it, for when they were stuck there being briefed before moving out.

The agent trails after him. “Uh, Agent Solo, I don’t think you are meant to be-”

“You’re obviously new here,” Napoleon says as he marches down the corridor. “So, I’ll let you know something now. One, I am not an agent here. Two, if you are that hesitant when dealing with me, you are going to have one hell of a time trying to deal with anyone else in this business. Growing a spine would be a good idea if you want to stay around here.”

The agent blanches, but at the moment Napoleon can’t find it in himself to feel any sort of guilt. “Sorry, Sir,” the agent says, and then blanches again when they realise it probably wasn’t a good idea to apologise. “It’s just…you’re a bit of a legend around here, you know. You and Agent- you and Kuryakin, I mean.”

Napoleon arches a brow. He doesn’t even know where to start with that, so he just drops it and moves on instead. “Where is Gaby?” he asks. The agent looks blankly at him, and he sighs. “Director Teller. Where is she?”

“Asleep?” the agent offers cautiously. “She’s here, she hasn’t left, but I haven’t seen her for a few hours.”

“Good,” Napoleon mutters. He digs around in his bag as they’re walking and pulls out one of the handguns he’d picked up from home. “That means she isn’t around to stop me from doing this.”

He reaches the ready room and there’s a tac team already in there, suiting up. Napoleon just walks straight in and dumps his bag down on one of the benches. “Don’t even try and argue with me, I’m coming.”

The team leader straightens up from where she’d been studying blueprints. “Honestly, Solo, I’m surprised it took you this long to get here,” she says. “You’ll stay at the rear, and you’ll follow my instructions. I’m not having you hare off because you think you can do a better job than us.” She hands him a folder. “Here’s the plan.”

Napoleon flicks the folder open and starts to read as he changes. “Fine by me,” he says, tugging on a black shirt that clings to his body and a pair of black combat trousers. Someone has set out body armour for him and he packs the pockets with magazines before pulling it on over his head. “Is this the only entrance to the warehouse?”

“Short of rappelling through the ceiling, yes,” the team leader replies. “And don’t get that thoughtful look in your eye, we’ve checked the structure from aerial footage and it’s too unstable to risk getting anyone up there. We’d lose any element of surprise we have from going in dark. You’ll have to come in the normal way like the rest of us plebs.”

Napoleon’s lips quirk at that, but it’s forced. He stares at the mission plan in the folder. He can tell that it doesn’t include every detail, has been put together as an afterthought because someone realised there was no way he would be left behind on this retrieval. The part of him that will always be an agent isn’t even annoyed by not having every detail, having had many years of only being told what was necessary, but the thief that’s been there even longer and is buried even deeper in his bones immediately suggests breaking into an office or two to find out what he’s not being told. He could even ask Illya to hack into the server again, seeing as UNCLE finally got with the times a few years ago and starting moving everything onto digital servers.

And then he remembers that the reason he’s even in the ready room, fitting an extra magazine in a pocket on his body armour, is because Illya isn’t here. He tamps down on the treacherous hope that is telling him they’ve found him, they are going to get him back. If there’s one thing he still knows about this godawful game they’re all stuck in, it’s that it’s never as easy as they want it to be.

Gaby appears just as he’s pulling on his beret, the wool worn under his hands as he pulls it down over his right eye, using his fingers to put the grooves in the left. The beret is one of the few things he still has from his years in the army, before he realised there were far better pickings elsewhere, where he wouldn’t have to follow orders he didn’t agree with. It’s gotten a little ragged at this point, but there’s something in it that straightens his shoulders and pushes all those worries down into corners that struggle to hold them in place.

“I suppose there’s absolutely no point in telling you to stay behind,” she says, looking wide awake even though Napoleon is sure he heard her going back to her office at well past midnight. “Do what Aja tells you to do and please don’t go haring off because you think you can get him back all on your own.” Napoleon gives her a look, but she just returns it, staring him down at all five feet and five inches of her. “I’m missing one of you,” she says, her voice low. “I’m not having another one of you go missing on my watch.”

“I won’t do anything monumentally stupid,” Napoleon says to her. “Or I’ll try, at least.” There’s a command shouted from across the ready room, and he turns to see the rest of the tac team in their final preparations. Someone is handing out earpieces and tosses one to him. “I assume you’ll be on comms,” Napoleon says to Gaby. “And CCTV.”

“I’ll be watching you,” Gaby confirms as Napoleon picks up a rifle. He’d hesitated over the SA-80 A2 rifles sitting on a rack, Waverly’s beginnings in the British Armed Forces left behind in lingering touches in UNCLE headquarters, but had decided on the familiar grip of the M4 carbine instead. Hands remember the way to sling it up properly without thinking about it, remember the safety procedures that had been drilled into him decades ago. He back-slings the rifle and adjusts his beret for a final time as the rest of the team fall into place.

Aja briefs them on the drive there, the rest of them silent and swaying with the turns of the truck through the London streets. Napoleon resists the urge to fiddle with his rifle, now in his lap. He’d seen one person, only just out of training and still jumping at commands, fiddle with the safety on a range and damn near shoot his own foot off. He isn’t going to be that stupid.

After finishing the debrief, Aja comes and sits down next to him.

“Remember, you are here as a courtesy,” she tells him. “You stay at the back of the group, you do not go off comms at any point and you do not split from the group at any point. Do anything to think that you are going to go off on some hare-brained scheme to try and rescue him and you will be back in this van with an escort. Understood?”

Napoleon is starting to feel nervous, but it’s not the type of nerves that he’s used to, the thrill of a heist or a job, the thrum that runs through his veins until he can’t stay still in anticipation. This is just making him feel sick. He nods at Aja, words suddenly sticking on his tongue.

“Hey,” she says, her voice softening slightly. She nudges Napoleon’s shoulder with hers. “I may have only served with Illya for a few months before he retired, but even that was enough time to realise just how formidable he is. He’s Agent Kuryakin, for god’s sake. The two of you are practically legend in the intelligence community. He’s going to be okay.”

Napoleon swallows heavily, his throat working. He has seen first-hand how formidable Illya is, so many times watched as he laid waste to people who threatened the world or the fragile peace they tried to maintain, or who laid a finger on him or Gaby. He knows how capable Illya is. But his Illya, the one who has slowly been learning how to life a life without a gun in his hand, how to come home and slouch on the sofa with the dog in his lap and do nothing for a few hours because the world does not depend on him to get up again, there’s a huge gaping hole at his side where he’s meant to be, and it is so easy for his mind to fill it in with the worst scenarios.

0-o-0-o-0

The warehouse looms in the half light of the early morning, there’s no other word to describe it. They’ve been driving for half an hour now, Aja getting regular updates from the techs back at headquarters that nothing they can see has changed. The van is apparently still there a few streets away, but Aja will tell Napoleon nothing beyond that.

Napoleon can hear his breaths harsh in his ears as he crouches and waits, secure behind a stack of half-rotten crates that smell vaguely of fish. The vague shapes of the tac teams are spread out around the warehouse, just about visible in the gloom that rises off the Thames. There are two indistinct shapes slowly moving towards the warehouse doors. Napoleon steadies his rifle and glances through the sights. It’s pointless, too dark to make out anything through the sights. All he can see is the tip of the post as it glows steadily, thanks to the radioactive material they think is a good idea to put in them.

There’s a muttered curse over the comms. “Solo,” Aja says quietly, a crackle in the earpiece as she adjusts her comms. “Come up front and pick this lock.”

Napoleon shoulders his rifle and hugs the old crates and shipping containers on one side of the yard as he makes his way round to the front of the warehouse. The tac team members at the warehouse doors move out of the way as he back-slings his rifle to crouch down. “Thirty seconds,” he says as he pulls out his lockpicking kit from his belt. “Maybe forty. Is the door alarmed?”

“Tech say there’s minimal electricity running into the warehouse,” someone answers. “They confirm there is not enough for any sort of alarm system, nor are there any schematics indicating this. It’s the bare bones of the building, nothing more.”

Napoleon doesn’t reply, too busy working on the lock and trying to feel the pins beneath his tools as they give. The door is rusted and old, but the lock feels new. Napoleon tries to ignore that flutter of hope trying valiantly to build in his chest. It’s never a good idea to get invested when there’s no promise of the desired outcome.

The lock finally gives underneath his hands and someone has to grab his shoulder to make him step back as he instinctively moves forwards, Aja giving Napoleon a warning look. Reluctantly, he falls back and takes up the rear-guard position. It’s not even that, seeing as there are two other agents behind him keeping an eye on their surroundings, but it makes Napoleon feel slightly less useless.

“Ready with flashbang,” an agent says. “Three, two, one…”

Napoleon shuts his eyes as one agent shoves the door open and another throws the flashbang grenade through the gap. Even with his eyes closed he can see the flare of light through his eyelids, can hear the familiar sharp bang of the grade through his ear defenders. There’s silence for less than a second before the usual explosion of orders over the comms, and the forwards team rush through the doors. Napoleon follows them, rifle raised and firm against his shoulder.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of orders being issued over the comms, of people in black only just showing in the shadows as they fan out through the building, of shouts of _clear_ as they move through the warehouse. Napoleon follows them, only barely managing to make himself hang back as the warehouse is cleared. For the most part the warehouse is just one large open space, girders crisscrossing the ceiling and long chains piled in coils of rust. There are what look to be a few offices off to one side, dark doorways leading to dark rooms. There isn’t a single light on in the place.

There’s a final _clear_ called out from a door off to the side and Aja holds up a clenched fist with her thumb pointing up to indicate that it’s all clear. The rest of the team pauses, a few of them pulling back their ear defenders. Napoleon can feel that little flutter of hope that had been determinedly clinging on in his chest, even as he’d seen the wide and definitely empty space in the warehouse, gutter and die out. He lowers his rifle and tries not to lose focus.

Aja waves him over to where a few of them are talking. “There is no evidence that anyone was here,” she says to him. “No discarded shells or gash, not even some nice cigarette butts to get some DNA traces from. No blood spatters either that we can tell with a preliminary sweep, which we would expect to see when Illya is involved. It’s clean, Solo.”

Napoleon looks around them, slinging his rifle round to his back as he turns to take in the warehouse. “It’s too clean,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. Aja turns to him, halfway through issuing orders for a perimeter to be established until the site can be secured, and gives him a questioning look.

Napoleon looks around the warehouse again. “These are the docks,” he says to her. “This is an abandoned warehouse. It shouldn’t be clean, not like this.” He crosses the room and crouches down, shoving at his rifle until it isn’t digging into his back or the barrel scraping along the concrete floor. There’s a torch in one of the pockets on his body armour and he pulls it out, shining the beam down across the floor at his feet.

Aja leans over his shoulder. “What is it?” she asks.

Napoleon tugs off one glove and runs a finger across the floor. “Look, there isn’t even dust,” he points out. He brings his hand up to his nose, and frowns. “Does this smell of cleaning fluid to you? Bleach, maybe?”

Aja runs her hand across the concrete and raises it to her face. “That smells of bleach,” she says with a nod. “I’ll get a full forensics team in here to canvas the whole warehouse. We might be able to pick up evidence of blood or other markers, but I doubt there will be much to go on.” She grips Napoleon’s shoulder. “This wasn’t our only lead,” she reminds him. “We have other leads, we’ll get him back.”

Napoleon stares at the concrete beneath his feet. Illya might have been here. Illya might have been lying right here, bleeding right on the concrete at his feet. If he could just rewind a few hours, Illya might be right here in front of him. Aja is saying something to him and the part of his brain that has taken over control and is actually listening nods at whatever she is saying. Without quite registering it he gets to his feet and allows one of the tac team to lead him outside.

There’s a click and a fizz in his ear. “Report in,” Gaby says over the comms. “Footage is showing no enemy in the area. Confirm.”

“Confirm,” Aja replies. “Warehouse is clear of enemy. Full forensics team is requested, it looks like there’s been a clean up here recently. Possibly Kuryakin and the enemy were here but have moved on.”

“Forensics team is fifteen minutes out,” Gaby says. “Keep in contact until a full team arrives to secure the site.” Aja confirms, and starts issuing orders to the rest of the team. There’s another click in Napoleon’s ear. “It’s just the two of us,” Gaby says to Napoleon.

“He’s not here, Gaby,” Napoleon murmurs, trying not to sigh audibly over the comms. “He’s not here.”

“But it looks like he was, and that’s a step in the right direction,” Gaby says firmly. “Do what you can to help there, but don’t get in the way. You’ll come back to headquarters with the tac team.” Napoleon nods, before remembering that Gaby can’t actually see him, and confirms over the comms. He stalks around the warehouse, looking desperately for anything that would give them a lead, any indication Illya has left behind for him to follow.

He actually flinches when someone touches his elbow. The agent steps back, hands held up and trying to look as non-threatening as possible when decked out in full tactical gear. “We’re heading out, Solo,” he says, and Napoleon hates how calm he’s making his voice, the way he’s shifting his stance to look less threatening. A small part of Napoleon’s mind questions whether he really looks that worried, or unhinged.

“I suppose you’ve been assigned to escort me back to headquarters,” he says, not bothering to smooth over the bitterness in his voice. “Make sure I don’t go rogue and run off on my own.”

“Basically, yes,” the agent replies. “The van is outside.” Napoleon briefly considers arguing, but he is fairly sure at this point that most of UNCLE is in league to make sure he doesn’t do anything suicidal, and that Gaby would definitely bench him for the rest of this ordeal and make his life hell if he runs off on his own right now. He gives in with a half-hearted shrug and follows the agent outside.

The inside of the warehouse might be suspiciously clean, but as they head outside the smell of the docks hits them just as it always does. The sun is just about beginning to come up, though it will be a while before anywhere in East London can be considered daytime. The murk from the Thames is still creeping across the yard, trying to tangle around the scraggy bushes that are trampled and just stubbornly clinging onto life, either side of the warehouse door.

Napoleon staggers to a stop as something suddenly falls into place in his head. “Wait, wait a second,” he gets out, staring at the bushes. “Where’s a flashlight? A better one than this tiny thing.”

Someone presses one into his hand and he flicks it on, crouching down by the bushes. They look trampled, like someone had fallen into them. He hadn’t thought anything of it until something had clicked in his head, something falling into place as he’d suddenly remembered the story Illya had told him once, during a very long and boring stakeout in Glasgow. They’d been trading incompetent capture stories from before UNCLE, and Illya had told him of how, on mission somewhere in the Balkan territories, he’d been captured whilst transporting critical information back to his handler. The people capturing him had been incompetent enough to not search him until getting him to where they were planning to hold him, and Illya had put up a struggle as they’d dragged him inside, throwing himself away from them just long enough to hide the flash drive in the bushes next to the building. When he’d inevitably overpowered all of them, he’d just walked out and picked the flash drive back up from outside.

Now, Napoleon shines the torch across the bushes, desperately hoping that Illya had remembered telling him that story, sitting in the car outside an apartment building in Glasgow. The bushes are torn and trampled, branches looking freshly snapped. Another agent pulls out a torch and starts shining it over the bushes, even though they don’t seem to have any idea what they’re looking for.

The light catches on a glint as the torchlight sweeps over it. “Wait,” Napoleon says suddenly. “Wait, go back. What was that?”

There’s that glint again. Napoleon ignores the scratches up his arms as he digs through the bushes, the glint cutting off as he blocks the torchlight. “Here,” someone says, adjusting the torch they’re holding. “There, it’s right there on your left.” Napoleon shoves at the bushes until they finally give and he can just about reach whatever is glinting in the torchlight.

He knows what it is as soon as his fingers close around it. There’s a sudden lump in his throat as he realises what Illya has left behind for him to find, has left as a trail for him to follow. He tries not to think what this means, that Illya has left him this.

“Oh Christ,” someone says as he pulls Illya’s watch out of the tangle of bushes. “Someone get an evidence bag over here.”

Napoleon swallows around the lump in his throat as he turns the watch over, the contours of it so familiar in his hands. A torch shines on it, and the lump in his throat threatens to come back up. There’s blood spattered across the watch, enough that the face of it is all but obscured.

Someone all but pushes an evidence bag into Napoleon’s face. “Come on, Solo,” they say, their voice not unkind. “You’ll get it back, but you know this has to be turned over to evidence now.”

Gaby must have been trying to knock some more emotional maturity into her agents since Napoleon left, because they don’t push and wrangle him into handing the watch over. One agent crouches down next to him, evidence bag in hand, and waits patiently with a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder until he can bear to hand it over.

The agent seals the bag and passes it behind him. “Look,” he says quietly, when Napoleon doesn’t move from where he’s crouched, staring at the trampled bushes. “I have no idea what you’re going through, I really don’t. But…Kuryakin- Illya, he’s out there somewhere. We’ll track down the people who took him, we’ll track him down, and we’ll find him. But until then, he needs you to keep your head on straight.”

Napoleon arches a brow at that, giving the other agent a look. They look unfazed. “Statistically, and if you think about it for a second, Illya will have been taken by someone who knows him,” he says. “Someone who has a grudge against him, or you, whatever. But that means there’s a decent chance you will know the person or people who have done this. And _that_ means you need to keep it as together as you can, see if you remember anything that might indicate who has done this.”

Napoleon gives the agent another look, but he knows it’s half-hearted at best. “Illya has a history much longer than I have been a part of it,” he points out. He knows that he should get up, that he has no excuse to be just sitting here whilst everyone else works around him, that somewhere, someone has Illya and he needs him back. But he just feels so tired.

“There’s a chance,” the agent just repeats. “Not that it makes it all depend on you, because it doesn’t, but Illya needs you to keep it together for him.”

Napoleon stares at the ground. He’s just so tired. There’s an ache in his bones that feels so old.

The agent sighs softly. “Come on, Solo,” he says, and he hooks an arm under Napoleon’s as he pulls him to his feet. “Let’s get back to headquarters.” He herds Napoleon towards a waiting car, all but pushing him into the passenger seat. Napoleon gets in without protest, because he can’t quite seem to get his limbs to coordinate, to get them to listen to the flare of anger and action that had been keeping him moving, that has now been smothered by the damp fog rolling off the Thames.

Someone is jogging over in the corner of his eye, and the agent with him moves smoothly to intercept. “We’re heading back to headquarters,” the agent says. “I’ll meet you there for the debrief.”

The other man tries to glance round the agent at Napoleon in the car. “He okay?” he asks, and though his voice sounds kind, Napoleon can’t help but cringe slightly at the pity so evident in his voice.

“What do you think, idiot?” the agent replies. “Keep working on the scene. I’ll see you later.” He turns away without another word, getting into the driver’s seat and reversing the car out from the tangle of official vehicles now littering the yard. Napoleon watches the warehouse slide away from view as they leave. His hands want to reach for the lines and contours of a familiar watch, run his fingers over the scratches of the engraving on the back, but the watch is bloodstained and sitting somewhere in an evidence bag, reduced to nothing more than another clue.

He stares out of the window and sees nothing of London as it passes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry, that got a little angsty. The watch thing was somewhat cruel on my part, but for those who have been following my work's for a little while, you probably weren't surprised.
> 
> It's going to get worse. Sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no more correct guesses as to why Illya has been taken, but you might be able to guess a bit better after this chapter...

The fifteen minute drive back to UNCLE headquarters is enough for Napoleon to shore up the cracks in the wall keeping everything that threatens to overwhelm him at bay, though they are less cracks and more gaping holes that slowly widen with every second of no news. He pauses in the lift, just as the doors open onto the main floor of UNCLE operations.

“What’s your name?”

The agent glances at him. “Agent Taggin,” he replies, and Napoleon hears the roll of a Welsh accent not quite ironed out when he says his surname. “And you don’t need to thank me, Sir,” he adds when Napoleon opens his mouth to do just that. “I was a training recruit during the Marrakesh incident. They let us watch the feeds when you and Kuryakin rescued those girls. It was all anyone could talk about for days.”

Napoleon grimaces as he’s reminded of that. It was one of the final missions he had taken before retirement, and it had, as usual, been a clusterfuck. They’d unearthed a human trafficking ring that had shipped young girls across the world, whilst on the run from a group intent on recapturing the information they had stolen from them, and hadn’t been able to walk away, even with the vital intelligence they were carrying. Nobody had objected when they’d seen Napoleon on the CCTV feeds, trying to calm a young girl he was carrying in her arms, had seen Illya stalk out of the warehouse behind him, blood spattered across his face and a look in his eyes that made most people who had seen it give him a wide berth the next time they saw him.

“It looked awful,” Taggin says, “and I’m glad that I’ve never had to deal with something like that yet, but honestly?” He glances over at Napoleon, a sudden shyness on his face. “It was standing in that room watching the feeds that myself, and half the other recruits in that room, decided we were going to see this through to become agents.” He shrugs at Napoleon’s look. “Half the agents in this building owe you or Kuryakin for one thing or another, even if you don’t realise it. We’ll all pay you back somehow.”

Napoleon knows that both he and Illya have a long and detailed history at UNCLE, often entangled with many other agents, but he hadn’t ever thought of it like that. He hadn’t thought of his and Illya’s histories here being any more than bloodied bandages abandoned in the corner of their office, gunpowder residue across the folders they handed in, a series of long and dangerous missions doing their best to put them in graves that would be early, if they had any other jobs.

He glances over at Taggin again, trying to see anything in the agent that jogs his memory, tries to remember back to those final few months at UNCLE. He’d never had much to do with the recruits, him and Illya always reserved for the dangerous missions that everyone believed nobody else could pull off. They’d always been there, but only in the periphery of his vision, a scurry of boots out of the corner of his eye.

He looks at Taggin again, still not recognising him, and he doesn’t think he’s ever really noticed before just how young the agents around him now look. He wonders if, to them, he looks old.

They round the corner to the command room, various agents milling around between desks and congregating around computers. Gaby is on the other side of the room with a few people who are sticking out like sore thumbs in their ill-fitting suits. Napoleon frowns, vaguely recognising one or two of them but not quite able to place them.

“Ah,” comes a familiar voice from across the room, which manages to drip with disdain. “Agent Solo. I hear that you’re missing a husband.”

Napoleon twists to see Sanders smirking at him. He doesn’t even think, doesn’t do anything but stalk across room and grab Sanders by the lapels of his cheap suit, shoving him back until his back hits a wall. All the air leaves Sanders lungs in a surprised huff, and Napoleon presses his arm across his throat so he can see the whites of his old handler’s eyes as he struggles to breathe.

“Where is he?” Napoleon all but snarls. “Where is Illya?”

Sanders wheezes, and it’s only the voice in Napoleon’s head telling him that he can’t answer any questions with Napoleon’s arm threatening to crush his windpipe that makes him ease back slightly, just waiting for Sanders to try something. Out of the corner of his eye the idiots in ill-fitting suits are hovering, lackeys not sure what they should be doing now their boss is suddenly pinned against a wall by an angry agent wearing tactical gear and with a rifle still slung on his back.

“You’re skulking around the halls of UNCLE, where you have no right to be, in a country that you don’t belong in,” Napoleon snarls. “Right as Illya is taken. What the hell do you know about this?”

Sanders tries to look nonchalant, but it doesn’t quite work when Napoleon still has him shoved up against the wall. “The UK and the US have always been strong allies,” he says smoothly. “London is a perfectly normal place for me to visit to shore up relations with allies. And as for being here? UNCLE is an important international organisation. It seems only appropriate that I pay your dear Director a visit.”

“I am not your dear, Sanders, and I’d thank you to remember that,” Gaby says coolly. “Napoleon, he is just here on coincidence. You can let him down.”

“Yes, do listen to the person now holding your leash,” Sanders remarks. “Put me down, Solo.”

Napoleon itches to slam Sanders into the wall again. He settles for pressing a little more on Sander’s neck, just for a second, just to see the worry in Sanders’ eyes. “Nobody holds my leash now,” he hisses at Sanders. “And I want you to imagine how difficult it would be for me to restrain myself if I found out anything that linked you to this. I want you to imagine what I might do to someone, if I thought they had information that would get my husband back to me.” He grins slowly, and is rewarded by Sander’s swallowing, a sideways glance at his lackeys. “After all,” he says quietly. “You’ve seen my file.”

Gaby lays a warning hand on Napoleon’s arm. Reluctantly, Napoleon steps back. “You don’t own me anymore, Sanders,” he says, his voice low. “And don’t ever, _ever_ , underestimate just what I am willing to do right now to get Illya back.”

He doesn’t let anyone pull him away, shrugging off Gaby’s arm. She’s busy anyway, apologising to Sanders in a voice that is so insincere that it almost sounds like it’s approaching sincere from the other direction. It’s a particular skill of hers, learnt from an Interpol director they met in Paris years ago. Waverly had always been far too British to use such tactics, though the combination of his British accent that is ingrained in almost everyone to be automatically trustworthy and the honesty that cushioned every refined syllable worked more than well enough for him.

Lost in his thoughts, Napoleon doesn’t even notice where his feet are taking him until he finds himself standing in front of his and Illya’s old office. His feet remember the way through these corridors even though he’s walking them for the first time in years.

There are two different names engraved on the door. Napoleon stares at them.

He recognises the names, but the faces he can put to them are too young, too naïve and inexperienced to have the office on the same floor as the Director, unspoken but obvious for anyone who knew where to look of how trusted they were. He knows that he shouldn’t have expected the office door to still bear _Agent Solo_ and _Agent Kuryakin_ in that neat serif font, knows that he’s been out for years now and that of course people have to come up and fill in the places left behind, but he still can’t help the little skitter of surprise down his spine when his feet take him to the office they remember but that has the wrong names on the door.

As if summoned by his wandering thoughts, the door opens. “Oh!” someone says as they skid to a stop, juggling the stack of files in their hands. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Not your fault,” Napoleon says, his mouth taking over from his scattered mind. “Mine entirely. I should know better than to linger outside doors in this building.”

The agent huffs a polite laugh that shuts off abruptly. Her mouth falls open before she snaps it shut. “Agent Solo,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you instantly.”

“I’m not sure why you should apologise for that,” Napoleon says wryly. “I haven’t been in these corridors for years.”

The agent’s face falls slightly, and Napoleon remembers that as a rookie, she’d always had trouble keeping a good poker face. She was better behind the scope of a rifle, back then, than in a crowd. “Of course,” she says, clearly remembering just why Napoleon is back here. “Is there anything we can do to help? My partner and I offered to go out to help track Kuryakin down across London, do anything we could, but Teller said that she already had people on it. Besides, we’re meant to be leaving for Mexico in a few hours.”

Napoleon has to force himself to keep that little turn of his lips, the quirk of a smile. “I’m sure whatever is in Mexico is more important,” he makes himself say. “Gaby has everything under control.”

The agent’s expression wavers, and Napoleon can tell she knows he doesn’t quite believe what he just said. “Regardless,” she says. “All the agents here are keeping an eye out, keeping an ear to the ground. Anything you need, you only have to ask.” She smirks slightly. “You might not even have to ask, to be honest. We’re continuing yours and Illya’s reputation for flaunting the rules, at least.”

Napoleon’s smile at that is almost genuine. “Nice to hear that the important traditions are being conserved,” he remarks. “Thank you, though.”

“Not a problem,” the agent replies, juggling the files in her arms so that they’re less in danger of scattering all over the floor. She glances behind her at her office. “Oh, this was yours, wasn’t it?” she asks suddenly. “Sorry, I completely forgot. Feel free to go in and poke around if you want. Really, the office belongs to you and Kuryakin.”

Napoleon shakes his head. He doesn’t think he could stomach seeing the office without all of the traces of him and Illya, the trinkets he’d picked up from missions around the world, the rip in the arm of the sofa where Illya had woken up suddenly and pulled a knife before realising that the sofa was not, in fact, trying to attack him.

“You know, we found the signature you’d carved into the underside of the desk,” the agent says abruptly. Napoleon blinks. He can almost remember Illya’s disapproving eye roll as he’d insisted on carving their initials into the desk, when they realised they wouldn’t ever be leaving UNCLE to be snatched back by their old agencies. He still has the little pocket knife he’d used, something Illya had picked up from a mission in Algeria and given to him.

“Nice to know the desk hasn’t broken yet,” Napoleon says wryly. “Look after the office, will you?”

“Of course,” the agent replies. “I should get going, someone will have my head if I’m late with these files.” She pauses as she’s about to walk away, and for a moment, there’s a tension around her eyes as she looks back at him.

“I really, really hope that you get him back,” she says quietly. “Anything that needs doing, anything at all we can do to help, you only have to ask. All of the agents here owe you in one way or another, and we’re more than happy to try and repay that debt.”

Napoleon blinks, and tells himself that it’s not because his eyes are suddenly stinging. “Thank you,” he manages to get out. The agent nods and turns away, disappearing down the corridor and leaving Napoleon standing outside an office with the wrong names engraved on the door.

0-o-0-o-0

Awareness bleeds back in drips.

One drop, and he is slowly aware that he exists outside of his own head. Another, and he can hear the breaths that are rasping in his throat, the creak of a chair underneath him. Another, and he can feel the warm slick of blood coating his wrists, the sting as what feels like rope rubs into his wrists with every breath.

Thoughts are heavy, each one weighted down until it feels like wading through treacle to even string a few words together. Instincts rise to the surface, though they would not be considered instincts for a civilian. He keeps his body lax, and his breaths slow even as what starts to feel like a cracked rib grates against his chest. To anyone but another spy, someone who has gone through the same rigorous interrogation practices, he looks unconscious.

Another drop bleeds back and he realises, from the breathing that doesn’t match his own, that there’s another person in the room.

“I know you’re awake.”

He doesn’t change anything, feels the slow intake of air over his lips, the same shallow breaths he’s been drawing in. There’s a low laugh from somewhere off to his left. A rustle of clothing, and then slow footsteps that fall flat and hollow.

“Come now.” A finger presses gently under his chin, tilting his head up. “You know I’m not going to fall for that. We’ve known each other for too long to play these sorts of games with each other and get away with it.”

Illya lets his head loll back at the touch, and there’s a huff of air across his cheek that accompanies another low laugh. “Come on,” the voice wheedles. “Let’s see those pretty blue eyes.” A hand taps against his cheek. “I’ll start getting a little impatient soon, and I’m sure you can feel what happens when I get a little impatient.”

A hand jabs suddenly at his ribs and Illya can’t help the hitch of breath, the way his lips press together to stop the sudden groan on his tongue as he feels bone shift. “Ah, there we are,” the voice murmurs. “No need to keep pretending now, Illya.”

His eyes feel like he’s been standing in a sandstorm for hours, but Illya cracks them open as a hand strokes down his cheek. “Just get it over with,” he mutters, aware that the words are slurring on his tongue but unable to do anything to stop them. His tongue is heavy, and he realises far too late that the ache in the crook of his elbow and the muffled thud in his ears is what it feels like to be drugged.

He almost curses, if he could get the words out over lips that feel numb. He should have recognised this earlier.

“Get what over with?” the man in front of him asks, bending close. Illya frowns, and then realises he’s wearing a balaclava, only his eyes visible. He blinks, eyelids grating against his eyes, but the face doesn’t focus.

Illya glares up at him. “Whatever torture you have in mind,” he mutters. “Or whatever drugs you gave me.” Holding his head up is too much effort and he lets it fall forwards, his chin lolling against his chest. There’s a fuzzy haze to the world, like it’s been tilted off kilter and he’s looking at it through a pair of Napoleon’s glasses, the ones he only ever puts on when he’s been staring at his thesis for at least eight hours.

With that thought, his heartbeat takes on a new tone. _Napoleon,_ it murmurs as it thuds in his ears. _Napoleon, Napoleon._

Illya wrestles his reaction down, but the man in front of him grins anyway. “Ah, I was wondering just when you’d remember him. Says something for your marriage, that you’re awake for barely a minute before thinking of him.” A finger caresses down Illya’s cheek. “Napoleon Solo,” the man murmurs, drawing the name out on his lips. “He must be frantic by now.”

“Touch him and I will end you,” Illya snarls, bucking against the restraints. He can feel more blood slip down from his wrists. “I will get out of here and I will find you, and I will end you if you harm him in any way.” He almost thinks he can feel the drugs burning in his veins, shredding through his already precarious self-control, and without even making the decision he lunges forwards, a growl deep in his throat. “You stay away from him.”

The man laughs. “How cute,” he says. He traces a finger down Illya’s cheek. “I’d forgotten that look on your face when you get all murderous and vengeful. It’s hard to believe your eyes are really that blue, you know.” Illya just manages to wrestle down the snarl on his lips, and the man smirks. “I know, I know,” he says. “You’ll end me if I touch him, etcetera, etcetera. Never thought I’d hear that speech from you, to be honest.”

Illya doesn’t have anything to say. The world is heavy around him, dragging on his skin until he can feel it pulling him down, a thousand small hooks digging into him to take him down to the floor. His head lolls again, and he can’t find the energy or enough thought to pull it back up again. His neck muscles don’t want to cooperate, his mind wading through treacle just to string thoughts together, let alone control anything outside of itself.

“I know you,” he manages to get out over lips that feel numb. “How do I know you.”

The man in front of him laughs and shakes his head. “Poor Illya,” he says through a laugh. “Fentanyl really gives you a run for your money, doesn’t it? Not that this is quite fentanyl, it’s been tweaked here and there, but I think the principles are the same.” He laughs again, a smooth silk that still manages to grate against Illya’s skin. “I didn’t exactly stop to read through the science when I took the samples. I was a little preoccupied with getting out undetected, after all, even if it wasn’t exactly much of a challenge.”

“I know you,” Illya says again. He knows that he recognises the voice, the smooth timbre of it and the way the lips stretch around a laugh that always sounds a little surprised, but he doesn’t know how. He can’t work out how. He tries to remember what fentanyl is, what it does to him, but that too slips from his grasp and disappears.

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” the man answers. Illya can make out the smirk on his lips. “But let’s keep that under wraps for a little longer, hmm? Can’t have that husband of yours finding us too quickly. I do have plans, after all.” He pats Illya’s cheek. “I suppose, if this was a spy thriller, this is when I tell you all about those plans, but I’m not an idiot, and I know your reputation. I’m sure you’ll find a way out of here eventually.”

Illya frowns, trying to parse out the words in his head. “What do you want?” he asks eventually. It’s a stupid question, but he can’t think of anything else to ask. He’s tied up to a chair, drugged to the point that he can barely string a sentence together, and Napoleon is a fierce thud in his heart that he can’t do anything about. He doesn’t know what else he can do.

Somehow, he’s still managed to say the right thing. The man’s face twists in a grimace, control slipping for a few brief moments before he seems to claw it back. Illya watches him wrestle with his expression with a spike of interest that is soon swallowed back up by the haze of whatever fentanyl has done to him.

“I’m going to watch you burn, dear Illya,” he says eventually, his voice evening out to a sharp edge that makes Illya’s hackles rise instinctively. “I’m going to watch you and your Solo burn. It’s the least you can do for me, after everything that you’ve done.”

“I have made a lot of enemies over the years,” Illya says as he stares up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of any sort of fear, even though it didn’t look like he’d been expecting any. “I have had a long life. You will have to be more specific about what I’ve done to you.”

“All in good time, Illya,” the man says, patting his cheek again. “All in good time. I know you don’t understand anything beyond rushing in guns blazing and a knife between your teeth, and leaving a high body count behind, but there are such things as plans, and I do have one. You’ll just have to wait and find out about it as it all unfolds.” He pauses, and huffs a brief laugh. “If you stay alive to see it all the way to the end, of course. There are such high mortality rates amongst people like us.”

“I don’t know you very well,” Illya snaps, trying to stop his words from slurring, “but I don’t think I am like you. I don’t tend to kidnap people and tie them up in warehouses.”

“This is a very nice abandoned house, thank you very much,” the man replies, a smile stretching his lips. “But I think that once you stop denying everything you are, you’ll see just how much you and I are alike by the end.” He ruffles Illya’s hair and Illya has to stop himself from flinching away at the touch. It’s too close to what Napoleon would do, what he does when Illya falls asleep on the couch after coming home late from the dojo, and the touch from the man in front of him, only his eyes visible through the balaclava, makes him shudder and feel faintly sick.

There’s a noise from somewhere else in the room, and the man glances over his shoulder. “I have to run, I’m afraid,” he tells Illya. “Well, not literally. We haven’t gotten to that part of the plan yet. But I’ve got a few people here to keep you company whilst I’m gone, make sure you don’t do anything stupid like try to escape.” He pats Illya’s cheek, trailing a finger down his jaw whilst Illya glares at him. “If looks could kill,” he muses. “Well, if that were true then our jobs would be so much easier.”

He turns away and two vague blurs come into Illya’s view. “Do what you like, but leave no damage that won’t heal in…let’s say a month,” he tells them. “Drug him up afterwards again like last time. We’ll move when I get back.”

The blurs move in what look like vague nods. “Have fun, Illya,” the man remarks over his shoulder as he turns away. “Try to enjoy yourself if you can. I’ve always suspected you’ve had a bit of a masochist streak.”

Illya wishes briefly that he had enough control over his tongue to snarl something back, had enough of his drugged mind to come up with something to say. He doesn’t manage to before the man disappears from his hazy view, replaced by the blurs of the two thugs. He can just make out the grin on one of their faces before there’s the blinding pain of a boot in his chest, kicking out at already broken ribs. The world rushes around him as the chair tips back and slams into the floor, and Illya regrets that he’s so accustomed to this sort of thing that he’s still conscious as a steel-capped boot connects with his side and a familiar pain flashes through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses? Illya is pretty out of it, being drugged, or he would definitely know who the man is who has taken him. Sanders may or may not know something, but you'll have to wait for a little while longer to find out.
> 
> There's also a theme starting to wind its way through this story that, if you guess it, links in fairly closely with why Illya has been taken. If anyone wants to talk themes and narrative strings, I'm always around in the comments or on tumblr [here](https://theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com/).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here lies angst...
> 
> Napoleon is not having an easy time of it right now. It's doesn't get easier this chapter.
> 
> In lighter news, the Halloween fic is nearly finished! I'm really hoping to have it done and the first part published on Halloween itself. It's nearly 24k at this point. It was not meant to be this long- for anyone who has been with me for a while, you'll know how often I say that. It's a problem.

She finds him staring at the wall, hands clasped loosely between his knees as he looks at nothing.

The room was once a server room, she thinks, but as UNCLE inched reluctantly towards modern technology the room became redundant and was never filled with anything else useful. The top agents of UNCLE took it over by degrees, slowly turning the room into an escape from the prying eyes of the building. It had slowly become somewhere safe to decompress in, hide out from Medical or just somewhere quiet to get some sleep between missions. Gaby remembers being on lookout as Napoleon and Illya had smuggled a sofa into the room from an empty office, a few other agents setting up handy diversions to keep watchful eyes away from their route.

There’s a new coffee machine in the room, and Gaby knows for a fact that the agents who got it signed off under some expenses think they’re so clever for sneaking it past her. Some of them forget that she was an agent here first and had to look out for Napoleon and Illya constantly getting into trouble when they had too much downtime in the building. She knows all the tricks, and invented a good portion of them.

Napoleon barely looks up as she comes in, until she clears her throat in the way that she knows is ingrained in him to make him sit up and listen. He sees what is in her hands, wrapped up in a plastic evidence bag, and it’s an effort to keep her façade up as Napoleon’s expression crumples.

“They finished with it, down in the labs,” she says as she hands it over. She doesn’t comment on how Napoleon’s hands tremble slightly as he takes the bag from her and opens it to carefully draw out Illya’s watch, only takes a seat next to him on the sofa. “There was more than one source of blood on it, they can tell that already. They’re testing samples, will run them through all our databases to see if we get a hit, but you know how these things work. It’s never as fast as in the movies.”

Napoleon swallows, his throat working, and Gaby twitches with the need to reach out and curl his fingers around the watch, hang on to Napoleon’s hand to ground herself. Illya’s absence is a hollow ache in the corner of her eye, a missing space where there should be a grounding presence, a steady hand on a gun and blue eyes that she always knows how to make soften into what is almost a smile. But she has to be better than that, she has more responsibility than herself, and she reins in her worry with a ruthlessness that she learned from Waverly.

“Do you know why his watch was there?” she asks Napoleon. “Whether it was intentional?”

Napoleon nods, not looking up from the watch in his hands. “It was something he’d told me about, once,” he murmurs. “He’d hidden a vital piece of information in the bushes outside a building when he’d been captured. Once he’d subdued everyone in the building, he just walked out and picked the flash drive back up.” There’s a broken laugh half-forming on his lips, and he shakes his head. “I didn’t even think of it until I saw how broken the bushes were when walking back out. If I hadn’t thought of it…”

Gaby realises, with an abrupt pang, that Napoleon has been out of the game for years now and that it shows. No agent would ever start guessing at what could have happened out loud. They all know where that road leads. “You did think of it, and that’s enough of that,” she says firmly, instead of the reprimand on her lips that she would normally give an agent for dwelling too much in hindsight. “We have a lead. We are working on CCTV and other routes as well. We’re making progress.”

Napoleon scoffs quietly. “Progress,” he mutters. “Right.”

Gaby continues, because she doesn’t know what else to say. “Forensics finished up at the warehouse,” she tells him. “They found evidence of blood that had been cleaned up. Not enough to be fatal to anyone, but enough to be serious. They can’t tell who’s blood it was, or if it was from more than one person. They’re only so good, and the warehouse had been thoroughly wiped.”

“I could have told you that,” Napoleon points out. “I did tell you that. Or I told someone, at least. You had disappeared to do something else.”

“I am the Director of UNCLE,” Gaby replies, not quite snapping at him. “I have more than just this to worry about. I can’t spend the entire time sitting around and waiting for news like you.”

Napoleon’s shoulders tense and that look comes across his face, the one that Gaby knows only appears when he’s feeling wounded and pushed into a corner. His expression smooths out and she hates seeing it, hates knowing that he’s hiding behind it, and hates more that he’s doing it because of what she said. She wants to reach out to him, do something to get back the Napoleon she knows from the years they spent running around the world together, but Illya has always been better at getting Napoleon out behind that expression. Of course, that is the problem.

Again, she continues, because she knows she has to. “I can only think of two reasons why Illya would have left his watch behind,” she says slowly. “Either he realised that there was blood on it that wasn’t his, that if he ditched it then you would find it and bring it back here, giving us a lead and something to work with, or…” Her breath catches slightly without her permission, and she ruthlessly pushes it back down again and doesn’t let herself pause. “Or he thought he was going to die, and he was leaving it for you,” she continues. “Those are the only two options I can think of.”

Napoleon takes a shuddering breath. “I’ve thought of the same two things,” he says quietly. “I don’t think- if he thought he was going to die, he wouldn’t have gone quietly from that warehouse. He would have…there would be a lot more damage. And dead bodies.”

Gaby has been thinking the same thing, but it’s still a relief to hear someone else say it, even someone as biased as Napoleon. “I was thinking the same,” she says. “Which means that he’s still alive. And if he’s still alive, they want something with him. This has to somehow be connected to someone in your pasts. We’ve been listening into the chatter, but there’s nothing obvious yet. Who would stand to gain something from this?”

“Half the people we’ve come across in our long and bloody lives?” Napoleon asks, a bite to his voice. “I’ve spent hours trying to narrow down who could have done this, who we’ve slighted or damaged somehow in the past, who’s still alive and able to orchestrate something like this. My list is still far too long.”

“Mine too,” Gaby admits. “But we know we have reasonable cause to narrow it down to someone linked with the Russians, at least. Do you know of anyone from Illya’s past who could have done this?”

“Half the SVR?” Napoleon asks sarcastically. He sighs, shaking his head. “Christ, Gaby, I don’t know. He’s never exactly been forthcoming about his time before UNCLE, especially not his spetsnaz days. From what I can tell, half of them hate him and consider him a traitor, half of them don’t care, and a few are old enough friends of his that the politics doesn’t really matter to them. But they won’t talk to me.”

“Oleg is still in the dark,” Gaby says. “We’re trying to get in contact with someone higher up, but anyone higher up doesn’t have direct contact with the field. I don’t think they know anything is going on.” She pauses. “Could Oleg be behind this? He was certainly bitter enough when Illya left.”

Napoleon half raises one shoulder in a poor attempt at a shrug. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so,” he replies. “It’s been nearly a decade since then.” He pauses, running a hand over his face. “I think that, in his own bastardised way, Oleg did actually care for Illya. I don’t know. Illya certainly thought so. Either way, I can’t see him behind this.”

Gaby hums, feeling unconvinced. She is well aware of her paranoia, something that every spy cultivates if they survive long enough to do so, but she is also well aware of how much of a grey area that can end up being. “I’ll keep trying to get hold of him regardless,” she says eventually. “I’ve got contacts I can talk to as well, though I can’t promise they will come through with useful information that isn’t worth too much to get. We’re not stopping.”

Napoleon nods. His hands are fiddling with something, and Gaby glances down to see him turning his phone over and over again in his hands. “Waiting for someone to respond?” she asks.

Napoleon almost looks guilty, and his hands still. “My own contacts,” he says, staring at his phone. “Nothing yet, but it can take a bit of time.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of that, and to Gaby, it doesn’t quite sound like it’s working. “They say they haven’t heard anything so far, but if anything happens in the more lucrative areas of the criminal underworld, they’ll hear of it.”

For example, Gaby thinks, if someone starts boasting of having brought the famed Illya Kuryakin to the ground. If someone decides to auction him off to the highest bidder. She knows that there are enough people out there, still alive, who hate him or Napoleon enough to pay a good deal of money to get Illya in their hands.

“They’ll tell you if they hear something?” she asks.

Napoleon arches a brow. “They’re not all as appalling as the people we’ve dealt with before,” he reminds her. “Some of them just fall too far into the grey. But there are morals there, amongst the people I still know. There’s a line in the sand.” He gives her a steady look. “They hear something and they will tell me.”

Gaby nods, eventually. There’s a network out there that she doesn’t think she’ll ever understand, buried behind misdirection and deceit and a layer of charm. It’s something only Napoleon has ever managed to try to explain, and she and Illya have never been able to understand how it worked. Amongst some of them there’s a strange code of loyalty, a mirror to what Illya can’t let go of from his spetsnaz days. Gaby can’t quite understand it, where that loyalty comes from, but then she never knew that life like Napoleon did.

“Honour amongst thieves, Gaby,” Napoleon says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Or something along those lines.” He stares at his phone again. “Besides, they know if they lie to me and I find out, I will rip them apart.”

His voice is so calm when he says that, Gaby almost doesn’t catch the steel beneath it, tempered now from the raw rage and anger that had been coursing through him. This is the Napoleon she remembers, the one she came to knew so well over the years spent running through this building and running all over the world. It’s been a long time, she realises, since she last saw him like this, but it seems like it was only yesterday that he was walking these halls with her, Illya at his side like he always was.

She misses them fiercely, the both of them. She misses the days when she felt like she could take on the world with those two men at her side, the days when she didn’t have to worry about the safety and the lives of everyone in this agency that is hers now, hers to corral and bully and coax into the best it can be. Some days she wants to leave her office and never go back in, get on a plane and have a crumpled folder pushed into her hands that will inevitably have coffee stains on it, full of the next arms dealer or terrorist cell or megalomaniac that they have to deal with. Some days she wants to cut and run and leave everything behind, every single weight that she has come to bear, all the lives that she now has responsibility for.

She pushes those thoughts down with a ruthlessness that is becoming usual to her and gets to her feet. “There’s work to do,” she says firmly. Napoleon blinks, rising smoothly to his feet. She shuts the door firmly behind him as they leave.

0-o-0-o-0

When Napoleon walks into the command room, the agents and analysts there are already in the middle of going through different scenarios. They falter when he comes in, but are too good to break off completely, and keep going with their current projection. Napoleon slips into an empty chair by a desk covered in the usual clutter that the analysts always manage to accumulate, and watches as someone does something complicated to a digital map of London that he doesn’t really understand. It seems that after he left UNCLE has finally been dragged into the correct century, kicking and screaming all the way, but he’s never been that good with computers.

That has always been Illya’s area of expertise. Napoleon always used to foist it off on him every time they came anywhere near computers on a mission, just as Illya made him talk to any of the people they had to charm if he could get away with it. If Illya were here now, Napoleon has no doubt that he’d know exactly what the analysts were doing to that map, and probably offer some muttered remarks in Napoleon’s ear about how he could do it better.

Of course, he’s not here. That’s the problem. That’s the thing that is making Napoleon’s chest tight, a fist wrapping around his throat every time he takes a breath and not letting go.

There’s only so much the agents and analysts can do with little new information, and soon they turn to Napoleon. His thoughts spill out over his lips without him having much say in it, recounting everything he’s considered since that first phone call, every name that has crossed his mind, anything that could have made someone with links to the Russians come after them. The agents do their jobs, taking the information and running with it, spinning out scenarios between them.

Napoleon just listens. He’s been out of the game for years, he doesn’t have any current information or anything that can help them. Instead he stares at a trinket on the desk in front of him, thumb smoothing over his wedding ring over and over again, as if he could summon Illya with it, reach across time and space like in Illya’s ridiculous science fiction novels and pull him back from that tether, the band on Illya’s finger.

He’d read somewhere, in amongst all the research he reads day in and day out, dissertations and articles and long books on art history that are always in another language, that quantum entanglement means there can be atoms apart in space but still tethered together somehow, and that could be the basis of teleportation in the distant future. Illya had tried to explain it, but the science had gotten him lost as well.

Now, Napoleon rubs at his wedding ring, and wonders if the electrons in the metal could be tied to the ones in Illya’s ring, some tenuous link through whatever realm quantum exists in holding them together. He wonders if there are atoms within his own body that are the same.

The room isn’t just dedicated to finding Illya. Napoleon glances behind him as another team sets up at a display screen. From the looks of it, which all seems way about whatever meagre clearance he has now, they’re working on a mission in Mexico City.

“So, I was thinking this over last night,” one of them says, pulling up a digital folder and opening it up to send mugshots across the screen. “And I think our projected casualty rates are way off.”

They fall into a discussion over the potential gang threats and what would happen with a shootout in the middle of Mexico City whilst trying to extract the person they’re looking for. “Civilian casualties would probably be unavoidable if the gangs found out about this,” one of them comments at one point. “Either way, we’re looking at engaging them.”

“Take them out of the city?” someone offers, sketching a rough route on the map up on the screen. “Draw out the various thugs that will come after us? We can limit casualties that way, then circle back round to make it to the rendezvous point.”

“We’d be going through multiple territories, and I really don’t like that,” someone else says. “That’s too much of a risk based on the value of the information we are extracting. Straight through the middle to the rendezvous with agents flanking us to engage any gangs who get wind of what’s happening.”

“And if there are too many of them?”

The agent shrugs. “We shoot the informant and get out ourselves,” she replies. “Last resort, but we know that information can’t fall into the wrong hands. If they have agents within the gangs there, which intel suggests is a real possibility, we can’t take that risk. Same with civilian casualties. Everything reasonable should be done to prevent them, but this information is too important.”

Napoleon doesn’t listen to much else that they say after that. He’s too busy trying not to choke on the sound of his heartbeat, the way it wraps around his throat.

The conversation is familiar. Not in the mission itself, because he’s fairly sure the last time he’d been in Mexico City it was a piece of cake and they’d mostly sat around in cafes as they tailed a mark, but he can remember a hundred different times where he’s had that same conversation. With Illya, with Gaby, with Waverly; it doesn’t quite matter, but he knows words like that have come from all of their lips at some point. He can remember running out scenarios with Illya in their office over sandwiches or scotch, depending on how late it had gotten, and though he can’t remember the missions they had talked about, he knows that it had been just like the agents behind him.

Something new wraps around his throat at the thought that they had been that callous. He knows they had, knows that there had been no other option if they wanted to stay sane through mission after mission. He knows that not caring, or at least being able to put aside the care until the job was done and finished, no matter how badly it went, was something both he and Illya had learnt down to a fine art well before they’d ever stepped foot in this building. But he’s never quite thought about what it sounded like, to someone listening in.

He has a vague feeling that someone should be disappointed in him, if only they knew what he’d spent so much of his life doing, but there isn’t anyone who comes to mind. Illya knows him too well to ever be disappointed or upset by the callousness they used to protect themselves, spent years teaching himself the exact same thing. Gaby is the same. Anyone else, parents long since dead, or friends or random strangers he walks past on the streets of London, none of them ever knew him well enough to pass judgement on anything he did.

Napoleon tells himself that, but still there’s something wrapping around his throat, crushing his windpipe as he stares at nothing.

_Had it been so easy?_ he thinks in the privacy of his own head, where nobody else can hear him. Had it been so easy, to turn away from the spiralling consequences of every decision they had made?

He has never believed in that bloody butterfly effect that some people love, nor the idea that everything happens for a reason. His life has been far too bloody for that, let alone all the other people he has seen dying for stupid reasons, or living with hell for stupider ones. But now he can see every decision he’s ever made, ones that saved the world, or the ones that nearly damned it but for sheer luck, Gaby’s driving and Illya’s good aim with a sniper rifle. He doesn’t think he’s ever quite realised, never quite managed to bring himself to think about just how close they came all those times. He’s never quite seen how easily they could have destroyed everything trying to make the world a little bit safer.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice Gaby has come back from wherever she disappeared to until she’s almost right in front of him. She waves a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Solo?” she asks. “Anything to contribute?”

Napoleon glances over at the agents and analysts still working on projections and scenarios. “I don’t know what else I can say,” he says to her. “I don’t know what’s going on here, not like they do.”

Gaby looks frustrated. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asks, her voice pitched low so that only Napoleon can hear her. If the other agents can, they know not to listen in and keep working. “What the hell is this? You’re Napoleon Solo, you’re one of the best agents in this damn game, and your husband is missing!”

“You don’t need to remind me, Gaby,” Napoleon snaps. “I’m well aware of what’s happened.”

“Then act like it,” Gaby snaps back. “Act like the goddamn agent that you are. We need every hand on deck, and I need my Solo back, the one who had my back and Illya’s all those years.”

At those words, at the blame that Napoleon feels fall down heavy on his shoulders at her tone, something frayed and torn gives just a little more. “Don’t you dare,” he says to her, his voice chilling until even he can hear the cold seeping into it. “Don’t you dare tell me that. I am not your agent anymore.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m not what you think I am anymore, Gaby.”

“I think you’re being ridiculous,” Gaby says immediately. “I know you, and this isn’t how you-”

Napoleon surges to his feet. “This isn’t me!” he shouts at her, the abrupt noise enough to cow even Gaby into silence. The room falls quiet, but there’s something burning now as it wraps around Napoleon’s throat, and he doesn’t care. “Goddammit, Gaby, don’t you understand?” he asks, his voice hoarse in his throat as he shouts. “This isn’t my life!”

Gaby stares at him. “What the hell are you-”

“This isn’t my life!” Napoleon repeats, desperation leaking through in his voice as he tries, he just tries to get her to understand. “You say you need your Solo back, but goddammit Gaby, he doesn’t exist! I’m not him, I haven’t been him for years. I don’t belong here, I don’t belong in this building or in this agency or even in this damn game anymore. Christ, Gaby, this isn’t my life anymore!”

Napoleon can hear his voice cracking, can feel the sting in his eyes, and he rubs at them with the back of his hand. “I’m a fucking arts professor,” he says, trying to wrestle some control back over his voice. “I’m not a spy anymore.”

“Bullshit,” Gaby says abruptly. Napoleon stares at her, at the scowl on her face. “Bullshit,” she repeats. “You don’t ever forget to do what we do, you’ve said yourself that you don’t ever walk away from something like this. You’re always going to be a spy.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to!” Napoleon shouts at her, throwing his hands in the air because he can’t bear to stay still. “Maybe I don’t want this! And maybe if you’d been around for more than an hour at a time over the past few years, maybe if you’d been there whilst Illya and I were trying to put together a life for each other outside of this goddamn mess, then maybe you’d understand why I can’t just jump in and save the world like we always fucking had to do.”

He stares at Gaby, who is looking at him with a hurt and guilt that she so quickly covers up, and he can’t bear any of this anymore. “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore,” he says as his voice cracks. “I can’t…” He swears he can feel the building shaking around him, the tremors coming from something cracking in his chest, finally giving way under all the pressure.

“You are not allowed to leave this building,” Gaby says dispassionately, her voice firm. “Not without two agents accompanying you. You try and leave, go after Illya on your own, I will have you detained in one of the holding cells here. I’m not losing you as well over all this.”

Napoleon stares at her. “Do whatever the hell you want,” he manages to get out. “Not like I can change your mind.”

He makes it out into the corridor, away from the eyes that had trailed after him all the way through that room, before it’s not enough to just grit his teeth and push through it. His chest heaves as he tries for one last time to wrestle back control, but he only just makes it to an empty office before he can’t help but double over, falling into the empty chair at the desk as he sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more Illya next chapter! And then Napoleon makes a rather stupid decision...
> 
> As always, comments are much loved. If anyone else has any more theories about why Illya has been taken then please let me know, so I can give you cryptic clues and frustrate you even more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an actual chapter, I have managed to get onto a laptop and access the documents from the cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you all for your interest in this story and for letting me know in the comments of the last chapter that you wanted to be kept updated on the laptop crash situation. I still don't know how long it will take for me to get my laptop back, but I have managed to get onto another laptop and access the documents on the cloud, so I can at least post new chapters. I don't know how long I will have access to this laptop for, but hopefully until I can get mine fixed!
> 
> More Illya in this chapter (warning for mild torture at the beginning) and then the plot starts to pick up. Napoleon is getting close to making his stupid decision that I've mentioned to a few people in the comments...

The cloth gets ripped away from his face and he can’t help but gasp for a breath, his body betraying him and desperately sucking in gulps of air. There’s a low laugh from above him, a hand wiping a stray droplet off water away from his chin. “Come now, Illya,” he says softly. “You’ve had to do that before. Don’t you know you’re not actually drowning?”

Illya spits out water, hoping to hell he got his abductor’s face. “I still don’t know who you are,” he rasps. “But if you’re half the idiot I think you are, then I’m not surprised you don’t know how waterboarding works.” There’s a sudden sharp schism of pain across his cheek, and he can feel the warmth of the blood dripping down across his jaw. “You’re just reinforcing what I’m thinking of you,” he mutters.

“Well, I don’t think there’s enough time in the day to overcome all the biases inherent in society,” the man says with a laugh. “Especially not in people as repressed as you and me.” He traces a finger down Illya’s jaw, Illya trying to stop himself flinching away at the touch.

The world is hazy again, though Illya can’t tell whether it’s from the drugs they’ve been pushing into his veins or whether it’s because he’s barely had anything beyond a few sips of water since he’s been taken. The room has been the same light every time he has opened his eyes, and with whatever is in those syringes he hasn’t had any hope in hell of keeping track of how long he’s been here.

“Oh, Illya,” the man says, crouching over him. He taps his knife against Illya’s chest. “What am I going to do with you?”

Illya shifts, well aware of the cold concrete against his back as he lies sprawled on the floor, from where the thugs got tired of kicking him and moved on. “What do you want with me?” he rasps.

In a second there’s a knife at his throat, eyes stark against the black of the balaclava in the face above him. “I want to watch you burn,” he hisses, spit flying from the corner of his mouth to land just shy of Illya’s face. “I want to see you and your husband and your perfect little life fall apart. I want to see you on the floor begging for me to put a bullet in that head of yours, because everything is in pieces around you and there’s no way you can put it back together. I want you to know what it feels like.”

Illya stares up at him. He knows him, he knows that he does, but there’s a fog smothering his head and he can’t work it out. But he recognises the eyes. He doesn’t recognise the person, even though he knows that he should, but he can remember seeing those eyes in a hundred different faces. Usually he sees them just as he’s about to kill someone, those last few seconds as the restraints fall away and a person is willing to do anything, anything at all, just to stay alive.

He doesn’t want to call it madness, but amongst the fog he can’t think of a better name for it.

But as soon as he sees it in the eyes it disappears again. The man sits back, sitting over Illya’s thigh where he’s sprawled on the floor. Illya tries not to flinch at the weight, at the way his leg twists underneath him. He’s sure there are bruises coming up across his skin, more than a few in the shapes of steel capped boots that the thugs are wearing. There’s blood on the floor that he’s fairly sure is his, drying in itchy flakes on his skin.

The movies always get it wrong, he thinks distantly as the man traces a knife down his chest, teasing at the fabric. Blood might be bright red when it’s fresh, when the cut has just been made, but the movies insist that three-day old blood on the floor is that same red colour. It annoys Illya to the point that he won’t watch those terrible action movies Napoleon sometimes loves to put on the TV, not unless they’re accurate enough.

Illya steers his thoughts away from that before they can go any further. Napoleon isn’t here. Napoleon is probably doing his best not to freak out right now, and if he has any common sense at all he’ll have gone to Gaby, his chop shop girl who will keep him in line, but all of that doesn’t matter as much as knowing that he’s safe. Napoleon isn’t here, he’s somewhere safe, and though Illya knows Napoleon is going to kill him if he ever finds out he’s thinking this, it’s all that really matters to him right now.

It’s one of the only things that keeps him still, beyond the fact that his hands are zip-tied behind his back so tightly that he’s fairly sure he’s lost all feeling in them at this point, as the man tugs at his shirt collar ever so gently with the point of the knife. “You know, none of them ever mentioned it, but I’m sure half of them were so jealous of you,” he muses. “Not the bitter tragic past or the rage episodes, of course. Those were all good ammunition for us. But half of them, I’m sure, would have killed to have your looks.” The knife gently taps his cheek. “Proper little Russian soldier, aren’t you?”

Illya doesn’t reply. The man seems occupied enough teasing at his shirt, and he uses the brief respite to try and catalogue some of his injuries, work out whether it is bone scraping as he breathes or just the muscles. He can’t see much of the room without making it obvious that he’s looking, but the concrete floor is cold against his back and there are lights in rusted cages over his head, the wiring disappearing into the ceiling.

Basement, then, but there’s probably more than one exit. He knows there’s a door somewhere behind him, thinks he might have heard people on stairs before, but the man sitting over him is definitely from his world and he would never have only one exit in a room. Especially one holding someone as dangerous as him.

His abductor pauses after a few minutes of teasing at his shirt with the knife, leaving a couple of shallow cuts across his chest. “You know, I really don’t know how you kept all this hidden for so long,” he says. “Nobody knew, I think, for all those years, and then you got sent off on some mission to East Berlin and you just never came back. And then years down the line, rumours through the grapevine emerge about you and the infamous Napoleon Solo.” He laughs, the sound grating against Illya’s frayed skin and the haze the drugs are leaving behind as they slowly, ever so slowly, leave his system. “Then the rumours make it round to the fact that you’re married, and not just married, but to _him_.” He laughs again. “Nobody believed it until there was photographic evidence.”

There’s an edge to his voice that Illya can’t quite grasp through the haze. “Why do you care?” he murmurs. “What is it to you?”

He realises his mistake when the knife comes to rest lightly at his throat. “Oh, Illya,” the man murmurs. “Don’t you wish you understood? Don’t you wish you could see it all?” He laughs again, and Illya can see that thing creep back into his eyes. “You’ll understand soon enough, you with your perfect little life.” The knife taps against his throat. Illya can feel it when he swallows, the way the point of the blade rests right between the ridges of his windpipe.

“Remember what I said,” the man murmurs at him, his voice low. “You are going to be begging for this in the end. You are going to be on your knees and want nothing more than for this knife to be here again.”

Illya bares his teeth. “I think you are going to be disappointed,” he rasps, the knife moving against his throat with every word.

“We’ll see,” the man replies. “But remember, I know you. I know your reputation. I think I know how this is going to end.”

Illya doesn’t realise until he feels the sharp scratch against his neck that there’s a syringe in his hand. “Can’t have you working out what’s going on too soon,” his abductor murmurs. “Now stay still.”

Everything is becoming a blur and Illya can’t keep his eyes open, but he thinks he can hear the click of something, and there’s a bright flash against his eyelids. He’s under before he can work out what it means.

0-o-0-o-0

The door to the back staircase is propped open with webbing shoved haphazardly in the gap, ammunition still in the pouches. She pauses by the crack and glances through.

The staircase is dimly lit, barely used unless there’s an emergency. A fine layer of dust catches the light coming through the gap in the door, scuffed up and disturbed across the concrete beyond the door. The door should have been alarmed, but given who is sitting on the landing just below her, she isn’t surprised that nothing went off.

Napoleon is slumped against the wall, staring at the stairs disappearing down in front of him. She can see even in the dim light that he’s been crying, even if she hadn’t watched him walk out of the room barely holding it together. His eyes are red, and she realises with a start that it’s been a long time since she’s seen him like this. For years, now, it’s been dinners and brunch dates, her snatching time away from her busy schedule to see them in a whirlwind of trading gossip and news and whatever they’ve missed since they last saw each other. She doesn’t remember the last time she really took time to just be around them.

Now she’s thinking about it, watching Napoleon slumped against the wall, she hasn’t seen him cry since the last mission that had gone horribly wrong, back when he’d still been an UNCLE agent. Illya had been in a hospital bed with a stab wound and Napoleon had broken down in the chair next to his bed, exhausted from two days of no sleep running around Marrakesh trying to stop a bomb from going off on a train they couldn’t find, and beside himself with worry as Illya’s fever climbed.

It had only been a few weeks after that when Illya had walked into her office and asked for her help in trading Napoleon’s years left on his sentence, convincing Waverly to give them to him instead and to let Napoleon walk away. Gaby had done what Illya had asked with barely any questions, because she had seen it on Napoleon’s face as he’d sat in the chair next to Illya’s hospital bed, head in his hands and tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving his voice raw. She’d realised then, with a sudden pang, that Napoleon wasn’t going to stay. She just hadn’t quite expected, when Illya had walked into her office, that it would be so soon.

Now, she watches as Napoleon heaves a sigh, running a hand over his face. “I know you’re there,” he says. “You blocked off some of the light as you passed the door.”

Gaby tries not to feel guilty as she pushes the door open. “I checked the break room, but you weren’t there,” she says. “I forgot about this place. How did you do the alarm?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Napoleon’s face. “The system hasn’t changed since I was here,” he says. “It’s quite easy to jam it if you have a pen on you, or even a penny.”

“Right,” Gaby says. She sticks her hands in her pockets, unsure suddenly of what to do. She isn’t sure whether Napoleon would appreciate her coming down to sit beside him, not right now. She looks at him, but he’s unreadable beyond the obvious, the worry and fear thrumming through him.

“I’m not going to apologise for doing my job,” she says suddenly. “I know we haven’t been able to get together as much since you left, since I became Director, and I know that it was jarring to go from spending all that time living out of each other’s pockets, but I won’t apologise for doing my job, for working my way up to running this entire agency. And I won’t apologise for not being around as much whilst you were trying to work out your civilian lives. I was still here, and I was trying to figure out my own life. So, I’m not going to say sorry for that.”

Napoleon looks over at her. He looks tired, but there’s slight curl of a smile to his lips. “I am sorry for saying that,” he replies. “I know how difficult it was, everything suddenly upending when I left, and then again when Illya left after me. I know how much you’ve been fighting for your place here. But I’m not sorry for anything else I said. This might be your life, this might be your everything, but it isn’t mine anymore.” His smile becomes weary and almost disappears. “It hasn’t been mine for a long time.”

Gaby nods. She moves towards him but doesn’t sit next to him like she wants to, like she would have when they were just agents trying to keep their heads above water. She leans against the railings instead, just far enough from Napoleon that he doesn’t feel threatened somehow, and waits for him to talk.

It takes a good few minutes before he looks up. When he does, she can see that he has Illya’s watch in one hand, his thumb smoothing over the face of it. “Was I wrong?” he asks.

Napoleon always becomes more direct when he’s doubting himself. Gaby crosses her arms and arches a brow. “I don’t know,” she says. “Where do I start?”

The look Napoleon gives her is so far from impressed, it’s almost approaching it from the other direction. It only lasts for a second, and then his attention turns back to the watch in his hand. “Walking away,” he says, and his voice is so frank that it takes Gaby a moment to work out what he’s talking about, to work out that he’s questioning one of the biggest choices he ever made.

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything. Napoleon turns Illya’s watch over, running a thumb over the engraving on the back. “I was sitting here thinking of all the ways this could have happened, and then I started thinking about all the times this has happened before.” There’s the pale ghost of a smile that briefly crosses his face. “Remember when Illya went missing in Cairo that one time? Whilst you were running interference and actually doing the job we were meant to do, I dropped off the grid and went to get him back.”

He huffs a broken laugh, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him. “Christ, Gaby,” he murmurs. “Back then, I didn’t even think about it. I just dropped off the grid, straight away, and got him back. Burned bridges for him. Hell, I killed people to get him back, not that that really means much in our line of work.”

“I remember,” Gaby says steadily. She does, actually, though most of what she remembers is crushing that frantic feeling beneath her heel as Napoleon disappeared, holding everything together for days as she tried to complete the mission they had been sent to do, and the sheer relief when Napoleon had appeared in her hotel room at two in the morning, a battered Illya in tow. “Why are you thinking of that now?”

“I didn’t even think,” Napoleon murmurs, almost sounding like he hadn’t been listening to her question at all. “And now? Now I can’t get off the damn ground. I can’t even think of where to start. I should be out there, I should be doing everything possible to get him back, and instead I’m sat here staring at this damn watch.”

His voice is wretched, and Gaby gives in to the urge to cross the short patch of concrete to slide down the wall and sit next to him. “Oh, darling,” she says softly. She reaches out and takes his hand. “This isn’t your fault.”

Just like that, Napoleon’s expression crumples. He twitches towards her before he seems to make himself stop, and the watch is digging into the palm of his hand where he’s holding onto it so tightly. “I should be…I don’t even know what I should be doing, but I should be out there, raising hell until I get him back. And I’m just…I’m just sitting here.” His voice hitches. “I’m just sitting here, Gaby. How am I meant to get him back if I’m just sitting here?”

“You forget what building you’re sat in,” Gaby reminds him. “You forget who you’re talking to, darling. Everyone I can spare is working on getting him back. I have agents all over the city running down leads and analysts hunting through the code, and they all know how important this is. We will find him.”

She knows that she can’t really promise anything, _god_ she knows how badly this could end, but she can’t even think about that. She knows how easy it is to fall into that trap.

She wants Illya beside her so much that it hurts. She can feel the absence by her side, missing that strange reassurance that there is someone standing at her shoulder who would happily kill anyone that annoyed her, or at least seriously inconvenience them. And if she misses Illya this much, has spent so much energy forcing herself to not think about what might be happening to him, it’s only a bare fraction of what Napoleon is feeling right now.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have left,” Napoleon murmurs. He lets his head fall back with a thud against the wall. “Maybe if we were still here, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Where’s the logic in that one?” Gaby asks. “Why would still being an agent here make any difference? You were in more danger doing this job than you are teaching at the Institute, unless you’re really downplaying your job.”

Napoleon barely smiles at that. “But we’d know what was going on,” he replies. “We would have been safer, surrounded by all of this, we wouldn’t have let our skills get rusty. Illya would never have taken that blind shortcut to get home a little quicker, I would never have just ignored the feeling that someone was following us, it would…” He trails off with a sigh. “We wouldn’t have been on our own. Maybe it would have been better.”

“Napoleon,” Gaby says firmly. “Darling. Believe me when I say that some days, I think it would have been so much easier if you and Illya had never left. But having seen you over the past couple of years? I would never have asked for you back, not unless I was so desperate I had no other choice.” She turns his hand over in hers, tracing the old scars across his knuckles. She’s fairly sure that some of them have faded since she was last in this position.

“You are so happy, you and Illya,” she says to him. “Walking away was the best thing you could have ever done, for the both of you. You love teaching, love the Institute, and if you hadn’t gone first you know Illya would never have gotten out, and getting out was the best thing he could have ever done. As much as I regret losing you from this game and having to keep going without you, as much as I know I wasn’t there whilst you tried to figure out how your lives worked in the civilian world, I have seen how happy it makes you and Illya. And I don’t ever want you to give that up to come back to this shitty job.”

“This shitty job is your life now,” Napoleon reminds her. Despite it all, Gaby laughs.

“Don’t remind me,” she replies. “It’s days like this that I wonder whether I should have just stayed a mechanic.”

She doesn’t mean it, of course. Even a taste of this life was too much for her to ever walk away from. It sounds horribly selfish even in her own head, but she knows that she could never go back to such irrelevance. What she does know is so important, and she doesn’t think she would be able to walk away to relative nothing knowing what she does, and how important it makes her.

“You ready to come back upstairs?” she asks, because she’s run out of things to say, and both she and Napoleon know that platitudes are meaningless and offer no comfort with the pasts they have. “If anything, someone will have put on a new thing of coffee.”

“The coffee here is disgusting and you know it,” Napoleon mutters, but he heaves himself to his feet and wipes dust off his trousers. “Send someone to that café down the street, it’ll be much better.”

“It’s lunchtime, that place is always packed around now,” Gaby points out. She holds the door open for Napoleon, and he picks up his webbing to let the door fall shut behind him. He’s still in the combat clothes he’d been wearing when they’d raided the warehouse and found Illya’s watch, though his beret looks to be stuffed in a pocket of his combat trousers. She can hear the rattle of a magazine in one of the webbing’s pouches as he walks ahead of her, webbing haphazardly slung over one shoulder.

“Christ, is it lunchtime already?” Napoleon murmurs. He runs a hand over his face. “Does the cafeteria still do the disgusting food it did when I was here?”

“It’s a little better,” Gaby replies. “But I’m the Director of this damn place. I’ll make someone put in an order somewhere. What do you want?”

She can see Napoleon ticking through a list of places in his head. Most of the agents here have a similar list, restaurants and other places that will deliver at all times of the day without asking any questions, and who haven’t inadvertently hired people trying to infiltrate UNCLE by pretending to deliver pizza. Being Director, Gaby hasn’t the heart to tell them that anytime they order in food, during those long missions that drag on into the early hours of the morning, she has already cleared every restaurant and delivery person who comes near the building. The agents have so much fun staking out their favourite restaurants to make sure none of the employees are secretly out to kill them, and it’s a good way to keep them distracted during downtime.

Napoleon hasn’t yet given her an answer when a younger agent hurries around the corner. “Director,” he says as he skids to a halt. “Oh, and Agent Solo. Your phone was going off. I thought it might be important.”

“I have my phone with me,” Napoleon replies with a frown. The agent holds something out in response, and Napoleon all but snatches it from his hands. Gaby recognises Illya’s phone, the one that was discarded when he was taken.

“Sorry, it was just sitting on top of your coat,” the agent says. “I figured it was yours, and that it might have been one of your contacts that…that you’d…”

He trails off as Napoleon opens his phone and his face drains of all colour. “Look,” he says, all but throwing the phone at Gaby, his voice strangled. “Gaby, look.”

Gaby takes the phone. A picture flips as she twists the phone to see what it is, and then her stomach sinks. “ _Scheiße_ ,” she spits before she can get control. In the next second, she pushes that churning worry back down and turns to the agent. “Get everyone into the command room, now. I want the best techs pulled off whatever they’re working on and in that room right now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the agent says. He turns and sprints off, catching the tone of her voice that it is serious.

“No number,” Gaby says as she strides down the halls, Napoleon hurrying at her heels. “And damn it, it’s WhatsApp that they’ve sent this by.” She zooms in, dragging her fingers across the screen and ignoring the way she can see the dark stains across Illya’s shirt, the angle that his head lolls at across the concrete floor. “No visible signs of where he is beyond concrete floor. Low light, so probably no windows. Looks like it could be a basement, but shouldn’t jump to conclusions at this point. Tracing the text will be more conclusive.”

She realises that Napoleon is silent, staring at the picture over her shoulder. “Here,” Gaby says, handing Illya’s phone back. “What are you thinking?”

Napoleon just stares at her incredulously. “Someone just sent me a picture of my husband lying on a floor with the shit beaten out of him,” he snaps at her, and she tries not to let her expression change at the sound of his voice breaking. “What the hell do you think I’m thinking?”

“Besides the obvious, then,” Gaby says. “Not what the husband is thinking, or the arts professor. What is the art thief and agent thinking? No matter what you might think, you’re still one hell of an agent.”

Napoleon actually pauses. “How did they get Illya’s number?” he says suddenly. “They threw his phone when they took him. How do they have his number?” For that, Gaby doesn’t have an answer.

They arrive at the command room to a familiar hive of activity. Gaby hands the phone to her head tech. “Trace it,” she commands. “Whatever you have to do, I don’t care. I’ll get it sanctioned after the fact.”

“Ma’am, WhatsApp is difficult,” the tech says hesitantly. “Without access to the server-”

“Then get access,” Gaby snaps. “I don’t care how, I don’t care if I have the US government in a snit over it when they pull their heads out of their own arses enough to find out. Find who sent this image and find out where they are. Get it done.”

The tech turns away, and Gaby squeezes her fists tight, her nails digging into the palms of her hands until she can feel it cut through the churning worry and she can breathe again. Napoleon is standing by her shoulder, face tight and expression unreadable. She doesn’t know what else to do, so she just gives him a look, trying to ask what he’s thinking without saying anything.

Napoleon just shakes his head. “Something isn’t right,” he murmurs. “This doesn’t…this doesn’t feel right. Someone knows who this is.” He glances at her. “Has Oleg surfaced yet?”

“Still trying,” Gaby replies. “Illya’s contacts won’t find him for you?”

Napoleon huffs a bitter laugh. “They won’t talk to me,” he mutters. “Most of them I can’t even get hold of, but I don’t know if that’s because they’re out on mission or because they’ve been told not to talk to me. I get the sense some of them want to help, but for whatever reason they can’t.” There’s a frustrated growl to his words. “If only Oleg would fucking surface from whatever hell he’s disappeared to, then I could do something.”

“You could do something now,” Gaby says. “Your contacts aren’t just other agents or spies. Get me someone who can hack WhatsApp faster than my tech. Get me someone who can find that phone.”

Napoleon looks like he’s thinking, and then his mouth falls open. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of her,” he mutters to himself. “I’ll need at least thirty thousand pounds that I can transfer under a pseudonym to a specific animal sanctuary in the US, and a secure phone. And by secure, I mean the constantly upgraded secret phones that agents pretend they don’t know the techs keep on them.” Gaby sees a few of the techs looking nervously at each other, and she gives them a look until one of them hands over her phone.

“What’s the cash for?” she asks, as Napoleon opens it and starts dialling a number that’s far too long to be a normal number.

“It’s a warning system to Charlie,” he murmurs, distracted by whatever he’s doing on his phone. “Only way to guarantee she’ll talk to me. The bigger the donation, the more urgent she knows it to be. There’s a system.” He glances over at her. “I’ll pay it back,” he says, the ghost of a smile flicking across his lips. “I just don’t have time to…liquidate some assets to get the money right now.”

There’s an agent hovering at her shoulder. Gaby doesn’t even bother looking at them as she beckons them forwards. “Get it done,” she says to them. “Anything he needs. I’ll deal with the fallout from it when I give a damn.” The agent steps forwards and follows Napoleon as he heads for a computer and kicks out the tech sitting there. She doesn’t miss how he looks at her phone again, stares at the photo on the screen. She looks away when she sees his expression.

Gaby looks around the room, at the agents working. There’s a sudden sense of pride that encompasses her, watching her people work, even with the urgency and worry permeating the room that is familiar whenever one of their own is in trouble. This is hers. This is what she has built, taken from Waverly and moulded into her own. And even on days like this, when she has to push down so much to get the job done, enough of her worry that it verges on her clipping away from the humanity that gets so battered with this job, she is damn proud of what she’s done here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any more guesses as to why Illya has been taken now? You're going to start to find out in a few chapters, but I am loving the speculation so far. Remember, there is a prominent clue somewhere in the story that only one person has picked up on so far, and it is not in any of the chapters or the comments...
> 
> The abductor's comment, on how he knows how this is going to end, is somewhat important. It won't make sense until the end of the story, but it does end up meaning a lot. Napoleon's contact, Charlie, is a reference to another fandom I was sort of a part of once, but mostly just watch from the outside now. Bonus points if you can tell me which one.
> 
> As always, comments are much loved and appreciated.
> 
> Also, a little bit on a friend of mine in this fandom. If you've read somedrunkpirate's fic [Drowning Deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376558/chapters/25470960), a TMFU pacific rim AU that is heartbreaking and fulfilling and incredible, then you might want to know that they are working on a sequel! As part of NaNoWriMo, they are trying to write about 500 words of it every day, and if you head over to their Tumblr [here](https://somedrunkpirate.tumblr.com), they're posting teasers and would love some support!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have my laptop back! I managed to get to the store to get the problem diagnosed, and it was a shorted cable from the hard drive, so the laptop essentially couldn't find the hard drive anywhere and was panicking like a toddler who doesn't understand object permanence. Luckily, it was an easy fix, and I even got it done for free because it was a known fault with the model.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for their patience and support, you're all amazing. Please don't kill me after this chapter.

“I’ve got it!”

Napoleon’s head snaps up from where he’s staring at his phone, pretending that he hasn’t just been studying the photo yet again. “Have you actually?” he snaps at them, “or is this another false alarm like the three before it?”

Nobody questions the sharp edge to his voice, that’s slowly become less of an edge and more of a buzz-saw over the past two hours. It’s been agonisingly slow process trying to track the phone that sent the image, trying to get past WhatsApp’s encryption to trace the message. Napoleon’s contact was invaluable, but ultimately was only able to help so much before even she hit a wall, one that she couldn’t get past without twenty-four hours and a lot of coffee. Gaby ended up getting hold of some bored agents at the NSA, who were more than happy to join in when she told them it would probably be one-upping the Russians. The past half hour has been almost total silence as the analysts and techs here worked with the NSA agents and Napoleon’s contact in some dark corner of the internet.

Napoleon strides across the room, and it’s obvious to everyone how he’s trying not to run. “I actually have it,” the analyst at the computer says. He sounds a little shell-shocked, and one look at him tells Napoleon enough. He’s young, probably insanely clever but not yet used to the way that the game works, and isn’t used to frayed former agents stalking around the command room and occasionally shouting at someone when there’s a false lead.

Napoleon isn’t in the mood to baby a new analyst. “Well?” he demands. “Do you have a location? Anything useful beyond some vague declaration?”

The analyst stammers. Someone older shoves him unceremoniously out of the way, taking over the console. “Not yet,” she says, typing furiously. “But I’m pinging the phone now. Ten minutes and we’ll have an accurate location.”

“That’s ten minutes to get the tac team together,” Gaby says. Napoleon almost jumps when her voice appears from beside him. He’d been so focused on the computer screen, the lines of code flashing across it that he can’t make heads or tails of on a good day, he hadn’t even noticed her approaching.

A bitter feeling runs through him at that. He should have noticed her. He should have noticed everything that he’d missed so far. He should have known.

There’s a flurry of movement around him that jolts Napoleon back into his own skin. That’s enough to make him grab his webbing from where he’d left it over the back of a chair, check his pockets for the beret that has made it all the way here from the first day he enlisted. Agents are already filtering off under Gaby’s clear orders in a hundred different directions, and Napoleon follows a few of them towards the ready room.

“Don’t even try it,” he mutters as Gaby falls into step beside him. “I’m going with the team. I’m going in the front door with the rest of them. This is Illya. You can’t stop me, and if you try, I will make your life hell until you let me go.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Gaby asks. “I’m coming with the team, you idiot. If someone needs to make decisions on the ground, it’s going to be me.” She presses into his side briefly as they stalk through the halls of UNCLE, a brief, fledging contact that is enough to dull the edge on Napoleon’s anger, surging bright beneath his skin now that there’s a tangible lead, a tangible thread leading him to Illya.

Ten minutes is too long to wait, especially when he’s not allowed to be involved in the planning. Gaby leaves him in a corner of the ready room, filling magazine clips with the steady click of rounds as they’re slotted into place, and Napoleon spends about two seconds actively trying to concentrate on the rounds in his hands, and not the rushed planning session taking place on the other side of the room.

It’s obvious when the phone is pinged. He can tell from Gaby’s expression alone, the way that her eyes narrow and her mouth tightens which means she finally has a clear objective. He’s seen the same thing time after time on a mission, and even more on downtime, when she was working on the next mechanical thing she had going and finally figured out what was going wrong amongst all her troubleshooting.

Napoleon ignores the voice in his head, the one that sounds unnervingly like his old staff sergeant telling him to keep quiet and finish loading the rounds into the magazines, and stalks across the room. “Where is he?” he asks, his voice cutting through the buzz of the other agents.

Someone spins the screen towards him. “The phone is located here,” they say. “And it’s moving a little, meaning it’s in someone’s pocket or similar. We’re moving out in five.”

It seems to take an hour before they’re getting into the trucks and cutting through the usual London traffic, the wailing sirens only half as effective as Napoleon wants them to be in clearing the streets. For some reason, Napoleon is surprised that it’s sunny. He’s been stuck inside headquarters for what feels like days, and some part of him is convinced that it should be dark. That everything that’s happened, all of it too large to comprehend and put words to properly, deserves something other than a sunny day.

_Pathetic fallacy_ , the professor in him supplies, in a voice far more suited to talking to freshers about modernism than sitting with a tac team in a truck as they race through London. Why it is always raining in tragic love scenes, why a happy ending can only ever occur when there’s sun in the sky, though the full definition is more complicated and not always to do with Macbeth, as most people think.

If that were true, Napoleon thinks randomly, then happy endings would be almost impossible in England, and everyone’s lives would be nothing but tedious drudgery, in line with the constant grey skies and half-hearted rainstorms. In his experience, though, pathetic fallacy exists only in the movies. He’s watched Illya get shot and nearly die in the blazing sun, on a pristine white beach where the sea and sky bled into each other like some Impressionist painting. The morning Illya had proposed to him it had been drizzling, that Irish rain which gets in under the collar and makes anyone with glasses see the world in smears. He’s spent plenty of days cursing the snow for how difficult it can make operating on a mission, or wishing for clouds instead of sunshine, if only so that enemy drones wouldn’t be able to fly over their heads.

“Ten minutes out,” someone announces. “Turning off sirens now for agreed approach.” The wailing suddenly cuts off, and they slot into the normal traffic. They have no idea, still, who has taken Illya, but they know they are professional, and Gaby isn’t certain enough of their control of traffic cameras to go in there, guns blazing, and still maintain the element of surprise. Dark SUVs are common enough in London to go unnoticed on the roads, nobody even giving them a second glance.

Not that Napoleon would notice if they did. He stares at the floor of the truck, at his rifle sitting in between his legs, the sling curled around his hand so the edge of the nylon strap is digging into his glove. He wants this to be real. He wants Illya back so badly that he can taste it, that he can actually taste something on his tongue, longing manifest in an ache at the back of his throat. Once it’s there, it’s impossible not to think of it, until it threatens to spread and consume him.

He’d meant what he’d said to Gaby, earlier. This isn’t his life anymore. This isn’t what he wanted to be. And if he lets himself think about that any longer, lets himself tip over the precipice he’d found, sitting on the dusty floor in that stairwell unable to even get back up, he’s sure it’ll be a hell of a battle to surface again.

He doesn’t think he’d be able to do it without Illya at his side, at risk of sounding completely hopeless and a true sap. But then he doesn’t think he’s ever managed to do much of worth without him, ever since that night in Berlin.

“One minute,” someone calls, and Napoleon snaps back into himself with a sense of déjà vu.

As soon as they appear on the street that the phone is on, the driver puts his foot down and guns the car down the road, the other cars following it as they come screeching to a halt in front of an unassuming terraced house. The agents pour out of the trucks, rifles raised and up against their shoulders as they fan out, black against the dull grey of the houses. Napoleon follows, instinctively covering the agent in front of him.

The front door of the house bursts inwards with a crash that sends everyone surging forwards, Napoleon included. The agents swarm the house, orders being shouted out across the road that makes Napoleon start forwards out of some instinct burned into him long ago.

Just as abruptly, he stops. This isn’t right. Something isn’t right.

He’s spent far too much time studying that damn photo, staring at it obsessively whilst he waited for someone to hack into WhatsApp. He could probably redraw it from memory, though he thinks he’d be sick if he tried to sketch out the bruises on Illya’s face. But that means that he knows, he would bet his Renoir on it, that the basement Illya was held in when the photo was taken doesn’t have a window. The lighting was off, from too strange an angle, like someone had improvised and hung one of those outdoor camping lanterns up on the wall.

The house he’s staring at now has a basement window just about visible from the road.

Napoleon sucks in a breath. The phone was traced here. They must be close. He spins on his heel, mind whirring as he tries to find anything, any indication of which house is the right one.

Two doors down, on the opposite side of the street, is a quiet grey house. The paint on the front door is peeling off, the green smudged with a darker colour, like someone grabbed the door in a hurry on the way out. The basement window is boarded up.

Napoleon walks towards it without thinking, the rest of the world narrowing down until he can see the dark rust of the smudges on the green door. There’s more on the railing, blending in with the rusted metal until he’s almost standing right in front of it, able to pick out the smears over the rust itself.

He pushes experimentally at the door. It swings open just a little at his touch, before falling back under its own weight.

Napoleon steps inside carefully, rifle at his shoulder. “Gaby, I think the phone is a red herring,” he says quietly, tapping at his earpiece. “I’m checking the house across the street, faded green door. I think…” He trails off, crouching down. The floor is dusty, the house obviously abandoned, but there are drag marks through the dust, and dark smears of what he instantly recognises as blood.

“The phone is a distraction,” Napoleon says urgently. “There is blood and disturbances in this house. I need people to cover me.” He taps at his earpiece. “Gaby?”

His earpiece remains stubbornly silent, only a little static when he taps it again. “Fuck,” he mutters. There’s no question of turning back. If he walks away to fetch more agents and they move Illya, or he misses something, he won’t ever forgive himself.

It’s not easy to clear a house on his own, but Napoleon does it anyway. The door to the basement is ajar, the stairs dark. Napoleon is well aware how vulnerable he is as he heads down the stairs, dim in the murky light coming up from the basement, and it takes him a couple of moments to remember that he needs to keep one eye shut, preserving his night vision in case the light suddenly shuts off and he’s left in the dark. He can hear the steps creaking beneath his feet, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

He’s certain that Illya is down here. There are spots of blood on the stairs, more smears low on the walls, as if something bloody had been dragged down into the basement. Napoleon crouches down by one such smear, touching it briefly with his glove. It’s still tacky to touch, so is recent.

He hits the bottom of the stairs, rounds the corner to the basement with his rifle held steady against his shoulder, and almost drops it when he sees Illya slumped against the opposite wall.

“Illya,” he says, his lips moving without permission from his brain, and then he’s crossing the basement to reach him, ignoring the water pooled on the concrete floor and the bloody smears across the place, ignoring everything other than the slumped figure he can’t look away from. He knows he should be covering the exits, should be more careful, but he doesn’t care.

He can see the rise and fall of Illya’s chest, the handcuffs that keep him chained to a pipe behind his back and the awkward angle he’s slumped at, hands twisted behind his back as he falls forwards. “Illya,” Napoleon says again, falling to his knees beside him. “Peril.”

He reaches out, gently touching Illya’s cheek, above the duct tape covering his mouth. Illya’s eyes snap open.

There’s a moment where Napoleon knows Illya doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t recognise anything, and is fighting the instinctual panic threatening to overcome his body. The next moment he tenses, looking up at Napoleon. The sudden panic in his eyes is surprising.

“Let’s get out of here,” Napoleon says quietly, reaching for the duct tape.

Illya jerks his head back, shaking his head frantically. Napoleon can hear him trying to speak, muffled shouts through the duct tape gag, so he reaches for it, peeling away a corner and then ripping the duct tape away from his mouth. Illya’s face contorts in a grimace, but he’s quick to push it away. “You have to get out,” he says quickly, not seemingly realising that he’s speaking in Russian. “Napoleon, you have to get out.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Napoleon asks, switching into Russian. Sometimes Illya falls into his native tongue without thinking when he’s exhausted or concussed, but Napoleon hasn’t heard him do so for quite a while. He turns to the handcuffs, tugging at Illya to try and get him to sit up so he can take the strain off the cuffs.

Illya twists, ignoring Napoleon’s efforts completely. “You have to get out,” he says again, eyes flicking around the basement with what Napoleon would call fear, if it were anyone other than Illya. “Napoleon, get out of here.”

“Peril, I’m not leaving you,” Napoleon says, slowing his voice slightly. There’s blood matting his hair at the back of his head, and he’s fairly sure he’s concussed. “We’re getting out of here, okay?”

Illya finally meets his gaze. “You can’t…you can’t be here,” he says again. His words are slurring, enough for Napoleon to notice it, and Napoleon frowns. This isn’t just a concussion. There’s something more, something that Illya can’t remember or can’t find the words to say.

“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” he asks, and Illya nods. Napoleon can see the panic in his expression, the frustration at not just being able to say what is wrong, and then, only then, does he notice the needle marks in his neck. “Oh,” he says quietly. “They’ve drugged you.” Illya nods again.

“Please,” he says, and that almost breaks Napoleon’s heart, because it sounds nothing like the Illya he knows. “You have to go.”

“With you,” Napoleon says. He keeps working on the cuffs, but the way Illya is slumped is making it difficult to get to them. He glances behind them, but the basement is still clear. There’s been no sound over his earpiece, no indication whether Gaby heard him, or they know where he is.

With that thought, he stills. “Ah,” he says. “It’s a trap, isn’t it?”

Illya nods, relief bleeding through the panic on his face. It vanishes abruptly when Napoleon sits back, kneeling on the cold concrete ground, and unslings his rifle. “If this is a trap, then there aren’t good chances of me being able to walk out of here,” Napoleon says quietly as he places his rifle down behind him and raises his hands behind his head.

Illya stares at him. “What are you doing?” he gets out. “Napoleon- no, Napoleon, what are you doing?”

“We’re better together,” Napoleon tells him softly. He can hear footsteps, just on the edge of his hearing, and he knows they aren’t Gaby and the cavalry coming to the rescue. He keeps his hands behind his head. “Wherever you are, Peril, it’s better if I’m there too. I’m not leaving you behind.”

“ _Napoleon_ ,” Illya snarls, lunging forwards against the handcuffs as if he can break them from his wrists by sheer strength alone. “Napoleon, _don’t_.”

Napoleon feels a sting at the back of his neck, where the skin is exposed, just as Illya’s gaze goes past his shoulder and a snarl comes from low in his throat. He lunges forwards again, the handcuffs cutting into his wrists, but it’s futile.

Napoleon smiles slightly, as he feels his vision tunnelling. “Sorry, Peril,” he gets out, and then he can feel his body slumping forwards, those last few seconds of consciousness where everything is black, and all he can hear is a low laugh from behind him and his name on Illya’s lips.

0-o-0-o-0

Awareness bleeds back slowly, in drips.

He can hear a low rumble that slowly grows as he struggles to the surface, until it becomes the sound of a car against the road, resonating up through whatever his head is resting on. Slowly, ever so slowly, more sounds filter in. He can hear the city outside, the sounds just about audible through the haze in his head. Someone near him coughs, and there’s the low murmur of an electronic voice, a radio running at low volume.

Another drop of awareness seeps through, as his body makes its various aches known. His ribs ache fiercely, the back of his head adding a deep bass below the melody of his ribs, and his arms are twisted behind his back, pins and needles a sharp trill to add to the composition. There’s something hard and cold against his cheek, and then as his body unexpectedly lurches and he nearly falls forwards into nothing, before his head hits back against a hard surface with a sharp crack, he realises that he’s in a car. He’s slumped across the back seats, can feel now the handcuffs digging into the skin of his wrists and the cool glass of the window against his cheek.

The car turns a corner sharply, and Illya lets himself fall across the back seats, away from the window and towards the centre of the car. Hands suddenly catch him, roughly shoving him back against the window, and Illya has to force himself to stay limp as his head cracks into the glass again. “Christ,” someone mutters. “He’s totally out of it. What has that guy been giving him?”

“Hey, we’re not being paid to ask,” another voice says from the front of the car. “We dump him at the address, drive off, and then I’m going to the Maldives with the money we’re getting. That’s it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” the first voice says. “Are we close?”

There’s a grunt from the front of the car. Illya tries not to fall back asleep, but there’s a haze clouding his mind, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hold on to the present. He drifts aimlessly, unable to grasp onto a single strand of thought for more than a few moments before it pulls away from him and disappears into nothing. The radio is tuned to some random pop station, the song played just quiet enough that Illya can’t hear any of the lyrics. All of the songs blur and merge into one long, upbeat jumble about partying and kissing boys. Vaguely, Illya thinks he can only relate to one of those things, though the singer probably wasn’t thinking of people like him when he wrote it.

“Here we go,” someone says, and Illya tries not to tense as he feels someone pressing over him, keeps his breaths low and even. There’s muffled grunting and then the click of a door handle.

Illya keeps his eyes shut, leaning against the window. If they’re going to kill him now, he’ll put up one hell of a fight. If he lunges forwards, he can get the man next to him hard enough to disorient him somehow, giving him enough time to get to the front of the car and get at the driver. It’ll be harder with his hands cuffed behind his back, but he can still do enough to crash the car, maybe take out one of them with it. Then he can get his hands in front of him, and that gives him a lot more opportunities, especially if one of these idiots was stupid enough to leave a gun lying around.

“Ready?” someone asks, and Illya braces himself, letting his eyes open to a narrow slit. He can barely see anything, only blurs as the city races pass them, the sounds of a normal London day filtering through. Someone else grunts a reply, and then the car lurches violently, swinging to one side. Illya only has time to register the click of a car door and hands shoving against him before he’s being thrown out of the car, the street rushing up to meet him.

He rolls, as best as he can when thrown from a car at high speeds with his hands cuffed behind his back, and skids to a stop across the road. Illya can’t help the groan as he rolls over onto his back, his entire body protesting the movement and threatening him with unconsciousness if he moves any more. He manages to prop himself up in time to see a nondescript white van driving away from him, until it suddenly veers off and hits a bollard, before crashing into a parked car with a screech of metal and a shower of broken glass.

Illya can hear screams, and the sounds of shouting from behind him. His body finally gives up and he collapses back onto the road, spots dancing in his vision.

There are people running past him. He can hear the pounding of their feet up through the road, but he can’t bring himself to care. Someone blocks out the light above him, a blurred figure reaching out for him, and Illya struggles to listen to what they’re saying. “Agent Kuryakin,” he makes out eventually. “Kuryakin, can you hear me?”

Illya tries to answer, tries to do anything but lie there on the road, but his vision is tunnelling and the figure above him is barely a shape anymore. The world swims, and then there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah.....
> 
> Napoleon is an idiot. He's not thinking straight _at all_ right now. It's causing problems.
> 
> This is essentially the end of 'part one' of this story, and there's going to be a significant shift to Illya's PoV now instead. It's not getting any easier anytime soon, but you're pretty close now to finding out who is doing this and why. Anyone have any more guesses before your time runs out?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a long day and currently have one hand sandwiched between ice packs- I'm fine, I fell off my horse and am a bit bruised, but this is taking a long time to write out! Please forgive any typos!
> 
> As I said last week, we're now switching to Illya's pov for the moment. He's waking up, and he's angry...

The monitor is beeping reassuringly, little green lines jumping across the screen. There are a whole host of numbers there as well, oxygen levels and blood pressure and whatever else the medical team are monitoring, but they mean little to her compared to actually seeing him there, asleep in the hospital bed.

“He’ll be fine,” the doctor says next to her, flicking through a file. “Beaten up and bruised, with some cracked ribs and skin lacerations from what looks like a sharp knife, but nothing permanent.” She flicks through the file to later pages. “Judging by his history, it’s nothing he won’t be able to handle either.”

Gaby hums. “What of the drugs in his system?” she asks.

The doctor shrugs. “Not a clue.” At Gaby’s look, she just shrugs again. “Blood analysis isn’t as accurate as they make out in the movies. Half the time all of the drug has been metabolised, and you have to try and identify the drug based on what it’s been metabolised into, which can change with time. Chromatography showed similarities to fentanyl in terms of retention time and interactions with the stationary phase, but there are marked differences in the metabolites being gained, and they aren’t as easily identified with mass spectrometry. We’re running NMR samples, but analysis might take a little while.”

Gaby nods, not looking away from where Illya lies sleeping. “Let’s pretend that I’m a former mechanic with no degree in medicine or forensics,” she says. “Try again.”

The doctor sighs. “He’s been drugged with something similar to fentanyl, but not quite,” she explains. “It probably had a similar effect as an opioid, so was probably used to knock him out and keep him under control. He shouldn’t feel any lasting effects, but I don’t know how long it will take to be flushed out of his system.”

“I suppose that’s what the saline is for,” Gaby says, nodding at the two bags hanging up by the bed.

“That, and dehydration,” the doctor replies. “He’s on a glucose drip as well, because why not. He probably needs it, and it won’t do any harm.” She shuts the file, handing it over to Gaby. “He should sleep for another few hours at least. Is there any point in asking him to take it easy for the next few days, once he actually wakes up?”

“None at all,” Gaby says promptly. “Solo hasn’t turned up, so as soon as he’s awake it’s going to be all I can do to keep him from burning London down to find him. I’ll do my best to get him to eat something, drink water, sleep when he can, but I can’t promise anything.”

The doctor sighs, shaking her head. “You know, I turned down a promising research opportunity at UCL for this job,” she mutters. “I really didn’t think I’d spend so much time worrying about co-dependent spies and how difficult it makes everyone’s jobs around here. I had one agent in here with a broken arm from a mission, and even just with that, their partner both threatened me and nearly went to break into St Thomas’ to get the country’s leading orthopaedist to come and treat him.”

“I heard,” Gaby replies, because of course she had heard. “He got sent on reconnaissance in northern Canada in winter as punishment for that one, by the way.”

The doctor huffs a laugh. “Ah, that’s nice to hear.” She glances at the monitors one last time. “I have other patients to see, so I should get going. Someone will keep working on the bloods, see if we can work out precisely what he was dosed with. I’ll have the full medical report on your desk by tomorrow morning.”

“No rush,” Gaby says, sticking her hands in her pockets. “I’m too busy to look at medical reports right now.” The doctor nods, and then leaves, the door sliding shut behind her. Gaby is alone in the room, save for the sleeping form of Illya.

She steps closer, now that she’s alone and doesn’t have to pay attention to the doctor, and sits on the edge of the bed. Illya looks so quiet asleep, his face shadowed with bruises, a shallow cut running down his cheek that’s held together with butterfly bandages. She knows there’s more beneath the blankets, bruises and broken bones, shallow cuts across his chest that lined up with the tears on the shirt he was wearing when he was dumped on their doorstep.

The first she knew about it was when an agent rushed into her office without even knocking, breathless as he skidded to a halt and got out in between gasping breaths that Illya had just been dumped out of a van pretty much right in front of their front door. By the time she’d made it down to Medical they’d already gotten Illya off the road and brought him in, though she’d been reassured by the lack of tightly coiled panic that usually accompanied the agent nearly dying. That had been three hours ago.

Gaby sighs. “Oh, darling,” she murmurs, reaching out to run her hand through his hair, to thread her fingers with his. Her hand is dwarfed by his. Despite the years he’s spent away from this place, she can still feel the calluses on his palm, the scars threading across his hand. She squeezes his hand, feeling it limp between her fingers.

“We’ll get him back,” she says quietly. “We’ll get him back for you. I promise, though I’m aware I’m only saying that because you’re unconscious and can’t berate me for promising something I can’t guarantee. But I’m going to do everything I can to get him back. And when you wake up in a few hours and storm upstairs, you’ll find him.”

There’s a cough from the door, and Gaby turns to see an agent waiting in the doorway. She doesn’t let go of Illya’s hand, doesn’t jump away from the bed like she’s doing something wrong. Illya means enough to her that she’s not willing to make it look like caring for him is a weakness. Her agents are emotionally stunted enough already. “What is it?” she asks.

“They’ve identified the bodies of the men who dumped him,” the agent replies. “And the gun that shot them.”

Gaby nods. She’d watched the footage from their front door cameras many times at this point, watching as a white van came into view and veered suddenly, the side door being flung open and Illya falling out into the road like a rag doll. She’d watched as, without warning, the van veered off the road, hit a bollard, and then crashed into a parked car. Even with the amount of times she’s pored over the footage, she still can’t work out where the shooter was.

“I’m coming,” she says, laying Illya’s hand back down on the bed. “Brief me as we walk. Are the bullets traceable?”

“Yes and no,” the agent says apologetically. He follows her as she leaves the room and they thread their way through Medical, stepping around doctors too engrossed in files or charts to look at where they’re going. There are researchers grouped in a conference room off to one side, looking like they’re arguing over something, but Gaby pays them little attention. As far as she understands Medical, and especially the research department based here that work with the physical scientists and engineers on the floor above to make their new tech, they’re always arguing over something. If they’re not, she should be wary of what’s coming next.

The agent hands her a file, another manila folder, and Gaby flicks through it. “So, more no than yes,” she says. “Great.” She pushes a stray lock of hair back from her face. “Let’s keep working, then.”

Illya is sleeping off torture and a cocktail of drugs in a hospital bed. Napoleon is missing, presumably taken by the same person who had Illya. She’s imagined the words she wants to shout at him so many times over the past few hours, letting him know exactly how stupid he was to wander off on his own into that old, abandoned house that was so obviously a trap, how stupid he was for not leaving and getting backup as soon as he realised he was being played. But Napoleon is not here. And if she wants to shout at him, tell him how unbelievably stupid he was and how worried she was in the same breath, then she has work to do.

0-o-0-o-0

When he wakes up, there is a doctor standing at the end of his bed.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” she says, glancing up from the file in her hands. “You’re in UNCLE, by the way. Beaten and bruised, and still on the tail end of whatever drugs they gave you, but you’ll be fine.”

 Illya blinks. “He didn’t want any permanent damage,” he says slowly. Those words filter through the haze of his memories. He can’t be certain it’s right, when everything feels like a bad dream slowly fading out as he wakes up, but he’s fairly sure. “He said that, to the men he hired.”

“Oh, well, that’s thoughtful,” the doctor comments. “What else do you remember?”

Illya thinks, chewing on his lip. It’s a habit he’d gotten rid of a long time ago, since well before the spetsnaz and the SVR, but recently it’s resurfaced. Napoleon likes to make fun of it, like he doesn’t have a hundred little tics that let Illya know exactly what he’s thinking.

His breath stutters in his throat. “Napoleon,” he gets out. “I remember… he was there?” He glances around the room, like Napoleon is going to suddenly appear in the chair by the bed, that pinched expression where he’s trying not to think about how badly the mission could have gone. He frowns, rubbing a hand over his face like it will make him remember more easily. “He was…he found me? But it wasn’t right? He…it was a trap.”

He remembers it now, the relief upon seeing Napoleon enter the basement that soon turned to worry as soon as he realised what it meant, that became sheer panic when Napoleon put down his rifle and raised his hands into the air. He glances down at his wrists to see them wrapped in gauze, assurance that he is remembering correctly how he’d strained against the handcuffs when he’d seen Napoleon kneel down, seen the vague shape of a person come behind him. After that, everything dissolves into vague blurs.

The doctor must see the realisation on his face, because she’s already moving to disconnect the IVs running into his hand. “It’s been six hours since the raid on the house that resulted in Solo going missing, presumably taken by the same person or people who had you. It’s been four hours since you were dumped on the doorstep here, and the two men dumping you were shot by an unidentified sniper as they drove away.” She swiftly pulls the catheter from the back of his hand and presses a cotton ball in place. “You’ve been unconscious, sleeping off the drugs in your system, since you were dumped. That’s all I know, so don’t bother quizzing me for more. Director Teller is up in the command room, last I heard.”

Illya sits up, gripping the edge of the bed until the dizziness recedes enough for him to stay upright. “You’re going to be dizzy for a while,” the doctor says. “And possibly nauseous. To be honest, I don’t really know what drugs you were dosed with, or how much, or how long ago. So you’re probably going to feel like shit for a while, but I really don’t think that’s going to stop you.”

“You’re right,” Illya says, forcing himself to get to his feet. “You’re not going to stop me leave?”

“Oh god, I want you out of here as soon as possible,” the doctor says. She returns Illya’s look with one of her own. “Oh, I know, I’m a doctor, I should help people, etcetera. But I’m a doctor at UNCLE, which means I’m far too inured to you agent types. If I don’t let you go you’ll just break out of here anyway, and it will make my life annoying.” She shuts the file, setting it down on the bed. “Stay in the building and I’m fine with you walking around. I want to sign off on it if you leave for whatever reason.”

“Fair enough,” Illya says. He learnt long ago not to argue with doctors, way back in the SVR where they’d just handcuff them to the bed if they didn’t want them going anywhere.

There’s a pile of clothes on the chair by the bed, and as Illya pulls the top on, he suddenly realises that these are his own clothes, the old black shirt he’d used to use underneath body armour when he was an agent here. He pauses. Even the boots placed neatly by the chair are his own.

“They were in Solo’s go bag,” comes a voice from the door, and Illya looks up to see Gaby there. She looks tired, leaning against the doorframe, but Illya recognises the grit in her expression that comes when she’s got a problem she won’t let go of until it’s solved. She nods at the clothes. “I don’t think he even realised when he grabbed it to come here. We found them stuffed at the bottom, along with that.”

Illya looks down to see his watch lying on the chair. “I remember this,” he says slowly. “I…I hid it?” He looks up at Gaby as he picks up the watch. “I hit him in the nose,” he remembers. “When they took me. I got his blood on watch, so hid it in bushes by warehouse when they took me out of car.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “That’s it. That’s all I can remember from then.”

“Well, we can fill in plenty of the gaps,” Gaby says. She slips her arm in his, and Illya pretends like it’s for her comfort, reassuring herself that he’s back here, rather than keeping him upright. “We still don’t know who had you, who now has Napoleon, but we’re finally getting leads.”

“I knew him,” Illya murmurs. Gaby arches a brow, but doesn’t say anything, letting Illya muddle through the haze of memories himself. Illya growls, running a hand through his hair. All he can remember is a familiar voice, a laugh that he recognised, a blurred face obscured by a black balaclava. He knows him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t know how.

Eventually, he shakes his head. “I knew him,” he repeats. “And he knew who I was. Before UNCLE, I mean. He knew me from Russia. From where, SVR or spetsnaz, I don’t know.” He growls again, rubbing at his face. “I don’t…I can’t _remember_. I know him and I can’t remember who he is.”

“Do you think he will kill Solo?” Gaby asks.

Illya tries not to flinch. “Not yet,” he says slowly. “I think…”

_I want to see you on the floor, begging for me to put a bullet in that head of yours._

“He wants to hurt me,” he says slowly, fragments of memory surfacing slowly, too slowly for him to make any sense of it. “He wants to ruin me. I don’t…I can’t remember why.” It goes unspoken that there is a long list of reasons that could be given. He has many people who would like to hurt him, even excluding the ones he has killed, imprisoned or who wouldn’t be able to pull off something this complex. If Gaby asks him to write down all the possible suspects, he wouldn’t even know where to start.

“He could well do that by killing Napoleon,” Gaby points out. A moment later she shudders, as if realising what she just said. “Can you think of anyone-”

“ _No_ ,” Illya snarls. He rips his arm free from Gaby, turning to her. “I can’t _remember_! I can’t remember who did this, what they said to me, why they are doing this. I can’t remember the last time I saw my husband’s face more than vague blurs of him putting down his weapon because he walked straight into trap for me!” He heaves a breath. “And you _let him go_.”

“What, do you think I could have stopped him?” Gaby asks. “Really? I may be Director of this damn place, but hell if that means I can control Solo when he doesn’t want to be controlled. It was all I could do to keep him in this damn building. I didn’t _let_ him do anything. He did this all by himself.”

“Because you have no control over him at all,” Illya snarls. The drugs are burning off, giving way to an anger carved into his bones, one slowly rising from the depths and curling around his lungs to steal his breath. “Why did you let him go?”

“Why did you have to get taken?” Gaby snaps straight back at him. “Why did one or the both of you somehow manage to cultivate enemies like you were growing spider plants so that any list drawn up is far too long to be useful? This is your fault for getting taken, and Napoleon’s fault for walking into that damn trap without backup, and my fault for not doing everything humanly possible to stop him or stop you or stop all crime happening on this planet with my own damn hands! Like it or not, this is a big mess with nobody at fault, other than maybe the maniac who took you and who now has Napoleon!”

Illya stares at her. “Spider plants?” he gets out.

Gaby throws her hands up in the air. “I’m terrible at looking after potted plants and I can only keep spider plants alive, that’s not the point. You want someone to blame instead of yourself or the man you love, or me? Blame the person who has done all of this to you, whoever the fuck he is.”

Illya makes himself breathe out, those deep measured breaths that a therapist taught him to do, when Waverly got fed up with expense reports and made him go down to Psych in UNCLE. They do nothing. He can feel his finger tapping steadily against his leg, but when he tries to still it, curls his hand into a fist instead, there’s a burning that skitters underneath his skin, surging up from where it had been carved deep into his bones. It’s too much to contain, and within a few moments his finger is tapping against his leg again as he tries to breathe.

In that moment, he hates Gaby for being right. He’s angry with her for letting Napoleon go and wander off all on his own in the middle of a raid, he’s furious with Napoleon for being so _stupid_ , for walking straight into a trap and then staying, saying something ridiculous about how they were better together, how it didn’t matter where they were because they would be together.

Illya ignores the traitorous whisper from somewhere that murmurs Napoleon was right. It’s easy enough for now, with that anger coursing through him. And burning beneath it all, he knows, is the fury at himself. That one never really goes away.

Gaby is still glaring at him, with those sharp brown eyes of hers that Illya has never seemed to have much defence against. “I should have known,” he gets out. He’s not sure whether it was what he meant to say, but the words leave his lips anyway.

“You should have known that Napoleon would be stupid enough to walk into that trap?” Gaby asks. “Theoretically, maybe. But you were restrained in some way, obvious by the marks on your wrists, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent his stupidity. So yes, maybe you should have somehow guessed that if you were used as a trap, he would have walked into it for you. But that doesn’t change anything.”

Illya growls at her. “I should have known!” he all but shouts at her. “I should have seen this coming! He had been watching us for weeks, and I let Napoleon laugh it off as paranoia, I let him believe it was nothing, and I let myself believe that I should not worry.” He grits his teeth. The tapping isn’t enough now, and his hands are trembling as he curls them into fists. “I was so worried that Napoleon was being paranoid, that it was going to upset everything after funeral, that I let it go.”

If only he had listened. If only he had stayed alert. If only he hadn’t been so concerned about their little civilian life, the one that was never going to last anyway, and ignored those years of training that told him something was wrong.

“I should have known,” he just repeats, feeling the fury at himself rise and boil, slowly becoming tinged with a low grief that was buried beneath it, which he doesn’t want to think about. “I should have been better.”

If he had still been here in UNCLE, he would have been better. He would have seen this coming, he would have been able to stop it before anyone got hurt.

Gaby shoves at him. She can barely move him, tiny compared to his bulk, but the sharp flash of pain that runs through him at the abrupt motion is just enough to jolt him back to the present. “We can either stand here and you can be angry at all the ways you could have stopped this happening, or we can go upstairs to the command room and get to work. The labs have come back on the blood on your watch. We don’t know who it is, but we know they’re in a database somewhere. We just can’t access it.”

Illya takes a breath, and then another, until they don’t catch in his throat and he can wrestle back a sliver of control. “I have people I can call,” he says. “If he knew me, if he is Russian, then someone will know something.”

“Napoleon already tried that,” Gaby tells him. They start walking again, heading up through the grey of UNCLE headquarters. “I don’t know who he talked to, he wouldn’t tell me who it was to protect them or you or both, but they refused to tell him anything. He thinks it’s because there was a hush order put out, so they literally weren’t allowed to talk.”

Illya frowns. He didn’t think any of his contacts would talk to Napoleon without him there, and even with him there, he would have only thought some of his oldest spetsnaz contacts, the ones that have withstood the SVR and UNCLE and everything else, would have answered the phone. “I will talk to them again,” he mutters. “What about Oleg?”

“Gone dark,” Gaby says with evident frustration. “We’ve tried, but we can’t raise him through any official channels.”

Illya nods. “I know how,” he replies. He may have been away from the SVR for years, but he spent even longer serving under Oleg. Oleg had picked him up when he was barely more than a child, had spent well over a decade honing his skills and building him into the best agent he could. Napoleon has always scoffed at the idea, but Illya does think that Oleg, in some way, grew to care for him. And he knows that he has done many things in service of Oleg, perhaps enough to grant him a favour. Certainly enough to get him on the phone.

He knows his reputation, what his name means in the halls of the SVR. He knows the power he still has there. “He will answer me,” he says. “I will make sure he does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illya is not in a great place right now, but who can blame him? It's not going to get any easier for him anytime soon, and a familiar face is turning up next chapter...
> 
> Any more guesses as to who is behind this all and why they're doing it? It's going to start to be revealed next chapter!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how last week I mentioned that I'd fallen off my horse and bruised my hand? Well, turns out that it's fractured... Somedrunkpirate says that it's the universe's way of telling me to stop writing angst, but that's never going to happen, so I'll just have to suffer through it.
> 
> (I'm fine, it aches a lot if I use my hand too much but I'm fine)
> 
> Anyway, new chapter! A familiar face is turning up again, and you're going to find out who is behind all of this, but it's going to take another chapter or so to find out exactly why...

She can see the tremble in his hands, one she hasn’t seen for a long time, but for the moment it appears like Illya has it under control, and Gaby doesn’t say anything about it. “That’s as much as we have,” she says, bringing Illya up to speed as they head for the command room. “We’ll keep working on getting access to the data on the blood sample. If needs must, I’ll have my people hack into it and deal with the jurisdiction issues afterwards.”

Illya just grunts in acknowledgement. “We know he’s Russian,” Gaby says. “We know he has some vendetta against you or Napoleon, probably against you if we consider the other things we know. He’s professional, he’s prepared, so we know he’s been planning this and has some end goal which ends with you and Napoleon dead or similar. We know that his file is in a database somewhere, but every time we try to access any details we’re rerouted and shoved somewhere else. If nothing else, this indicates that he’s an agent of some sort, or affiliated with an agency somehow.”

Illya grunts again. He’s limping ever so slightly, favouring his left side where Gaby knows that his ribs are cracked. If it were anyone but Illya, she would be impressed that he’s up and moving with the amount of drugs that have flooded his system and the beating he’s taken. Seeing as it is Illya, and she has seen him run around foreign cities and take down a terrorist group with pieces of shrapnel embedded in his side and the torn pieces of a shirt used as bandages, she’s just mildly annoyed at him. It’s little compared to the anger and frustration that’s been keeping her company all this time.

“I have people I can talk to in multiple agencies, and more outside,” Gaby continues as they head towards the command room. She can hear the buzz of it already, the sound of her agents working, and it settles something just a little. “There might be a few people I can lean on, and-”

She breaks off abruptly as they round a corner to see a knot of people standing in the command room. She recognises some of them, from some vague memory running through her head, and then just as she realises she’s looking at a couple of CIA agents that she worked with years ago, with Illya and Napoleon, they turn and she sees the person stood behind them.

Beside her, Illya snarls. Before she can grab him, he stalks forwards. One agent isn’t quick enough as Illya pulls their pistol out of the holster at his side, and another one gets brushed away without a second thought. Illya clicks off the safety on the gun, and the small sound reverberates through the room. Everyone falls silent, turning too slowly to do anything but watch as Illya stalks across the command room, raises the gun and levels it at Sanders’ head.

“ _Where is my husband?_ ”

Sanders grins at him, but Gaby can see the fear that flashes across his face. If she can see it, then Illya definitely caught it as well. “Why, have you lost him?” Sanders asks. “So careless of you, Kuryakin. You should be more careful with your things.”

Gaby can actually see Illya’s trigger finger twitch, though at least it is lying flat along the handgun and not curled around the trigger. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know something,” he growls.

Sanders sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Oh, so I have come to rub it in your very volatile face?” he asks. “Do let me know what it is I’m meant to be rubbing in your face so I can get on with it, I would enjoy that quite a lot.” He grins at Illya, a smarmy grin that makes Gaby shiver. “Just where is our dear Solo, then? Got himself into some trouble? I thought you were the one who was meant to be missing.”

Illya starts forwards. The gun lowers but it’s not much of a reassurance, the way that his body shifts and his stance changes. Gaby has seen him throw enough punches to know that her entire command room might erupt into carnage with one wrong movement.

“Enough.”

Her voice isn’t loud, but it cracks through the room. Illya steps back, even Sanders falters. Gaby inserts herself between the two of them, eyeing Sanders with enough distaste that he falters again. “Why are you here?” she asks.

“Director Teller,” Sanders says, the smoothness of his voice poor at covering up the worry she can hear in him. “Perhaps we can take this conversation somewhere more…private? Your office, perhaps?”

Gaby is well aware of Illya standing behind her, the trembling in his hand. “You can say it right here,” she says, glancing around the room meaningfully. The older agents understand, and shepherd the younger ones or the lower clearance ones out of the room. “Explain why you’ve deigned to grace us with your presence or I’ll have you removed.”

“You recently ran a test on a blood sample,” Sanders says. “And you cannot access the details of this person in any database.” He grins at Gaby’s arched brow. “I’ll give you this one for free. He’s a Russian operative that we suspected had made it to English soil recently. We would be very interested in an extradition deal when you get hold of him. Couple of things we have in the States that we’d like to throw at him, see what we can make stick.” Sanders shrugs. “Not like we could wrangle an extradition deal out of those damn Russkis.”

“And I suppose you want this deal confirmed before you tell me who the hell this operative is,” Gaby says. At Sanders’ nod, she just folds her arms. “I don’t believe that is going to happen. I would like to remind you who you are talking to. I am the Director of this damn agency and you, you are a relic of older times, clinging on because you don’t have anywhere else to go. You are a dying breed, Sanders, and your agency knows it.”

Sanders looks worried, if she knows where to look, and she knows him well enough that she does. “Someone get me a phone,” she says, and one is pressed into her hand almost instantly. “You know,” she says conversationally as she dials a number, “I get on better with Alex over at MI6 than I do your boss, but we’re still friendly enough. International diplomacy, and all that. It’s easier when you can just pop over to Vauxhall instead of having to cross the Atlantic, but technology is amazing. It lets you make these things called phone calls to anywhere in the world. You just need their number.” She holds up the phone so that Sanders can see the screen. “That is your boss’ private number, is it not?”

Sanders pauses. The smile Gaby gives him is sharp enough to cut. “Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know it,” she says. “Well, we’ll just have to hope that all my international diplomacy has paid off.” She presses call and sets the phone down on a desk, putting it on speaker. The ringing cuts through the room.

“Of course, you can just tell me what I want to know,” Gaby adds as they wait for someone to pick up. “Then I won’t have to ask your boss and tell him just why you are standing in my building on what I think is not a fully sanctioned mission.” Sanders visibly flinches, and Gaby’s smile widens. “Oh, you should be more careful, Sanders. You forget who you are talking to.”

The ringing cuts off as the phone is picked up. “Teller,” says a distinctly American voice. “What can I do for you?”

Gaby holds Sanders’ gaze until he breaks it, glancing away at the floor. Behind her, Illya makes a quiet noise of satisfaction. “I’ll call you back,” Gaby says, hanging up without looking away from Sanders. “Well?”

“Alexander Vasilyev,” Sanders says reluctantly. Gaby can hear the sharp intake of breath from Illya behind her. “Armed Forces, spetsnaz, now SVR for the past decade. He’s been on our radar for a while, an operative we think has been involved in US affairs on behalf of the SVR and the Russian government, mostly in Syria and Iraq. We’ve never managed to pin anything on him, and anyway, there is no extradition treaty with the Russians, and if we did get him they would disavow him anyway.”

“We suspected he had crossed into London,” Sanders continues when Gaby gestures at him to go on. “So, I brought some agents out here to see what I could do. When you ran that blood sample, it pinged in our database, and alerted us.” He shrugs. “I thought I would come down, see what I could do.”

“See what you could get out of me, you mean,” Gaby says tersely. “This Alexander Vasilyev has been running his own game in my city, and you knew he was here for weeks before even bothering to enter this building. You’re lucky I don’t give MI6 a call and tell them everything that is going on, tell M to let the double-ohs out. They get very protective over their city, you know. As do I.”

She steps closer to Sanders, the fury in her sharp brown eyes enough to make Sanders flinch and shudder back. “Get out of my building,” she says sharply. “Get out of my country. I’ll be watching to make sure you do.”

Other agents appear at her words, surrounding Sanders and his lackeys. Gaby doesn’t let her gaze leave them until they’ve left the room and are well out of her sight. Only then does she turn to Illya. “What do you know of this Vasilyev?” she asks.

Illya blinks, and a shudder runs through him. “Alexander Vasilyev,” he murmurs. “How did I not know it was him?”

“Because he had you drugged up to your eyeballs,” Gaby says sharply, hoping to jolt Illya out of whatever daze he’s worked himself into. She hasn’t seen this happen much, isn’t as common as his episodes of anger, but Napoleon has mentioned before that Illya’s past can have a particular grip on him, and she suspects that it prompts more regret and sorrow than anything like anger. “Who is he?”

Illya takes a breath, and seems to come back into himself a little. “I need to call Oleg,” he just says. “He has to know why Alexi is doing this. He has to.”

Gaby hands over a phone that an agent presses into her hands, taking the gun from him and giving it back to the apologetic agent whom Illya took it from. “Illya,” she says firmly. “Tell me who he is.”

“Alexander Vasilyev, originally joined Second Army in Samara,” Illya recites from some long-buried memories, his voice flat. “Came from poor family, no siblings. Joined spetsnaz in 2002, spent seven years serving before moving to SVR under command of Oleg. Has been part of SVR field agent section since 2009, serving mostly abroad in Middle East during rise of Daesh.”

“Illya,” Gaby interrupts. “I don’t need a damn report. You know him, yes?” At Illya’s nod, she continues. “Then tell me who he is.”

“His friends called him Alexi,” Illya says softly. He stares at Gaby, as if he didn’t quite mean to say that, and fiddles with the phone in his hand. “I never really knew him well, but we overlapped at SVR, my last year with his first. He is- was- good agent. We worked together when I was SVR and he was spetsnaz, when Oleg has me run missions with spetsnaz support.” Illya shakes his head. “He was good agent, smart. Bad at navigation, very good at personas and undercover work. Angry, but then we all were there. He didn’t make friends easily, not from what I could see, but he was very loyal to friends he had. It is way it works, back home.”

“Well, he’s really not that good an agent anymore,” Gaby points out. “Get in touch with Oleg, now. The sooner we know why he’s doing this, the sooner we can work out what is going to happen next. I’ll get the analysts to start digging up every piece of information we can find on him.” She turns away, starts directing the agents and analysts around her who have been pretending like they haven’t been listening to every word.

When she turns back, the phone is ringing. Illya has put it on speaker and is leaning over the table, clutching the edge of it hard enough to turn his knuckles white. She pretends like it’s just so he doesn’t trash the room in his anger, and not because she can see his legs trembling slightly with how exhausted he is.

The phone rings for what seems like ten minutes. Finally, after Gaby thinks Illya might have left dents in the table, the line clicks. Illya starts speaking in Russian, but Gaby knows enough to follow.

“Requesting connection to Pike Anna Echo Heron, Nine Seven Three Shura, immediate action required,” he says, his voice falling flat in that way so many agents’ voices do when reporting in. “This is Status Red, I repeat, Status Red. Immediate connection required.”

“Confirm Status Red,” a monotone voice answers. “Connection in progress.”

Illya growls under his breath as there’s a dial tone over the line. He mutters something too quiet for Gaby to hear. “Bureaucracy,” he translates at her look. “Everything going wrong and they still take too long to even connect phone.”

Finally, there’s a click on the line again. “Status Red, call in,” comes a familiar voice. Illya straightens, catching Gaby’s gaze. She just nods at him.

“Sir,” he says. “It’s Kuryakin.”

There’s a rush of static over the phone as Oleg sighs. “I thought you were missing,” he says. “I hadn’t been informed you had been found. Is this a courtesy call?”

Gaby frowns at that. She hadn’t authorised anybody to update Oleg, and when they had repeatedly tried to contact him she hadn’t told anyone on the other side the details of why they were doing so. Either they have a mole, which isn’t impossible but is very unlikely, or Oleg has been keeping himself updated somehow. She wonders, not for the first time, what Oleg actually thinks of Illya.

“Napoleon has been taken by Alexander Vasilyev,” Illya says steadily. “The same person who took me. I didn’t recognise him at the time, I was drugged, but we are sure. He had been watching us for weeks.” He grips the table again. “What has Alexi done, Oleg? What has happened to him?”

“That comes under a need to know clearance,” Oleg says sharply. “And you have not been a part of this agency for a very long time, Kuryakin. You are obviously alive, so you do not need to know. Put your Director on the line and I will coordinate with her to have my agents sent in to apprehend Alexander and return him to Russian soil.”

Illya slams the table suddenly, and everyone in the room jumps apart from Gaby, who had seen that coming from a mile away. “Napoleon has been taken,” he snarls at the phone. “That makes me need to know! What happened, Oleg? He was a good kid when I knew him, he was a good agent.”

“You knew him more than a decade ago,” Oleg says sharply. “You are no longer SVR, Kuryakin. You are not even UNCLE anymore. This does not concern you.”

Illya actually snarls. “I know you don’t care about Napoleon,” he says. “Believe me, I know. But my husband has been taken by one of your agents, the same one who beat me up and drugged me. You don’t care about him, but you sure as hell have some tiny amount of care for me. I was your best agent for years. I have killed for you, Oleg. Not just for some mission, or some assignment. I have killed to protect you, to keep you alive.”

“You were doing your job,” Oleg says steadily.

“I was your agent!” Illya shouts. “I did what you ordered me to do, I did what my you had trained me to do, and I did my best because that was what you demanded! I spent years doing everything you asked. You owe me, Oleg, you owe me something. Give me Alexi. Give me something, _anything_. Anything to get him back.”

There’s a long pause, long enough that Gaby thinks Oleg has hung up. She goes to speak but Illya shushes her with a glare. Finally, Oleg clears his throat. “Alexander was a good friend of Markos. He was at the funeral and disappeared shortly afterwards.”

Illya breathes out. “I remember him there,” he murmurs, his voice abruptly quiet. “Quiet, even for him. Disappeared as soon as the coffin was buried.”

“He left no trace,” Oleg says, sounding reluctant. “We had no idea he had gone to London until recently. He took Markos’ death…hard. He had partnered with him in the field a few times, been close with him in Moscow and outside the agency, and they had been good friends. We were…concerned, that he was blaming himself for his death.” He coughs, and when he next speaks the concern in his voice is masked. “Put your Director on the phone and we will arrange for my agents to be sent in to subdue and capture him.”

“Not good enough,” Illya growls. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Oleg says steadily. “We don’t exactly implant trackers in our agents, as you well know. He is in London. That is all I know.”

“Not good enough!” Illya snarls. He heaves a breath, squeezing his eyes shut as if that will help him wrestle back some sliver of control. “Tell me how to find Alexi,” he says, his voice almost trembling with the effort needed to restrain it. “Tell me how to get him back.”

0-o-0-o-0

The first thing he is aware of is the dripping of a tap somewhere, the rhythm just slightly thrown off, enough that it starts to drive him mad in only a few moments. There’s the scrape of plastic around his wrists, zip ties pulled tight, and the same feeling around his ankles. He doesn’t feel too bruised or beaten up, just groggy, that familiar daze of drugs sluggishly pumping through his veins.

He could play unconscious for longer, but he doesn’t really think there’s any point. Whoever has taken him is good enough that he wouldn’t be able to fake it for long. With a groan that’s partly due to the drugs and partly just out of frustration, he opens his eyes.

There’s a man staring back at him, sat on a chair a few metres away. He’s vaguely attractive in that unremarkable way, a pleasing face that would make Napoleon maybe look twice in a crowd, but no more. His lips quirk in a smile as he sees Napoleon wake up.

“Good, I was hoping you wouldn’t fake being asleep,” he says. He has a British accent, a normal London one, but there’s something underneath it that Napoleon can’t quite place. “That makes it so much more tedious, you know? And then I have to decide whether to try and wake you up, leave you alone, all of that.” He sighs, shaking his head. “It’s just more effort than it’s worth, really.”

“Oh, I know, it’s makes it so hard for the interrogator,” Napoleon replies. “All that wondering about whether you are going to make your life more difficult if you pretend like they weren’t faking, it’s just one more thing you have to worry about.” He flashes a quick smile, trying to force it through the drugs. “I’m Napoleon Solo, but you probably already know that.”

“I don’t make a habit of taking random people off the street, if that’s what you’re asking,” the man says genially. “Or in your case, from an abandoned house in the middle of this grey city.”

“You’ve just come at a bad time,” Napoleon says. “Try again in the summer, the weather is normally much nicer. You do get that summer city smell, though, but the Thames is much nicer now they don’t pollute it.” His mouth is running ahead of his brain, trying to work out who this man is and what he wants. The accent is bothering him. It’s too perfect, none of those little things people pick up over the years. He worked out within a second of listening to him speak that it isn’t his real accent, but he can’t quite place where he’s really from.

“Somehow I don’t think it will be as easy to get into the country next time around,” the man says with an apologetic smile. “Not unless I want to get more creative, but again, that’s so much effort, isn’t it? Some days I just want to hand over a passport, my real passport, at check in, go through security without having to worry about whether I still have that nice little knife hidden in my boot, and just get on the plane.”

“Mine is lockpicks,” Napoleon says, studying the man as intently as he can without giving away that he’s doing so. Everything is slowly coming back as the dregs of the drug drain away. He remembers Illya being taken, hours of fear that had grasped at his muscles and paralysed him, left him slumped in a stairwell staring at Illya’s watch. He remembers the raid, walking into an abandoned house without any backup, the sting of a syringe in the back of his neck.

_Stupid_ , he thinks bitterly. He could have done a thousand things other than kneeling down and putting his rifle down, raising his hands into the air. He doesn’t know why he gave in so easily.

No, he does know. He knows that he’d lost any rational thought the moment he’d seen Illya there. More than that, he’d chased it away, sent it scattering to dark corners to hide there, trembling at his wrath. Rational thought was the enemy, the thing that was keeping him from Illya. Ironic, really, that he’s fought for Illya, killed for him so many times to keep him by his side, and the one time that he puts down a weapon for him, he doesn’t actually get to keep Illya with him.

_Dramatic irony_ , his mind supplies. _Where there is incongruity between what is expected and what occurs._

He really has been out of the game too long, if he’s thinking like this when tied to a chair with his abductor opposite him. He’s also been too quiet for too long.

The man across from him smiles slightly, as if he’s been following Napoleon’s thought process all this time. “Lockpicks?” he prompts him.

“Oh, I always leave them in a pocket and forget about them,” Napoleon says, pushing back the various thoughts trying to get his attentions. He should know how to do this, for God’s sake. He should know how to talk to a mark, to charm them into revealing more than they mean to. He was damn near famous for it, in the right circles. “Even now. And I’m always worried that some poor security person at the airport will find them and panic. They’re not exactly the average thing you have in a pocket.”

The man huffs a laugh. “No, it wouldn’t exactly come up in an answer to Gollum’s riddle,” he says. “Even he thought of a knife.”

“Bilbo wouldn’t have,” Napoleon points out. It’s one of the weirder conversation topics he’s had whilst talking to an abductor, but he’s content to run with it if it will get him information. “Ask an average person on the street, and I’d bet they wouldn’t think of a knife either. It depends on who you are, what you do, all that jazz.”

“Don’t break out into song, I’ll have that stuck in my head for days,” the man warns him, a reassuring smile curling his lips. Napoleon doesn’t buy it for a second. He’s a con artist. He knows one when he sees one.

“Why the Lord of the Rings reference, then?” he asks, sitting back as best he can whilst tied to a chair.

“Hobbit reference,” the man corrects. “Though I suppose you could argue either way, given that the riddles are talked about in the Lord of the Rings books.”

“Ah, but is it direct or circumstantial?” Napoleon asks. “To my memory, and admittedly I haven’t read the books for a while, it only really comes up when Bilbo recounts his true tale at the Council of Elrond, and there he doesn’t directly talk about that particular riddle. It’s assumed that we know what Bilbo was talking about. And whenever it is referenced, where Gandalf talks to Frodo about pity and how it stayed Bilbo’s hand, the riddles themselves are never explicitly mentioned.”

“Ah, we have an academic in our midst,” the man says. “Though I suppose it takes a lot of that sort of intelligence to be a professor at the Cortauld.”

Napoleon studies the man sitting opposite him. “Did you have fun following me around?” he asks. “Snooping through my office, watching us as we lived our lives? Did you have a good time?”

“It was disappointing,” the man says. He shakes his head. “The infamous Napoleon Solo, and he didn’t even notice? I had hoped for more.”

“Retired, remember?” Napoleon says sharply. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, though. You know all about me, and here I sit, not even knowing your name.”

The man smiles sharply. “Alexander Vasilyev,” he replies. “My friends call me Alexi.” He huffs a brief laugh at Napoleon’s expression. “I know, the accent is a bit pointless now, but habits are hard to get rid of. I would say _at your service_ , but then I suppose it’s rather the other way around right now.”

“Your accent really is good, you know,” Napoleon says. The man- Alexi- is obviously Russian, that slight roll in his accent that Napoleon only recognises now, but that doesn’t do much other than confirm Napoleon’s theory that it was someone involved in Illya’s past behind this all. He doesn’t have much else he can do but talk, and hope Alexi answers the right questions. “Myself, I could never quite get rid of the American in my accent. Always had that slightly nasal tone coming through, no matter how hard I tried.”

He’s lying, of course. His London accent is flawless, he can do a decent West Country if he listens to a few people first, and he can even pull off a passable Irish one if he’s in the mood and had a few fingers of scotch. The point is whether Alexi knows this or not.

Alexi just smiles genially. “Well, I suppose when you’re American it’s hard to get away from your accent,” he points out. “It permeates everywhere. Wherever you go, just look around and there it is, the great American virus. Works better than the common cold.” He shakes his head, an amused tilt to his head. “Did make learning American accents pretty easy, though I can never get the Boston one right.”

“Even people from Boston can’t get the Boston accent right,” Napoleon points out. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You’ve got the British accent down, and most people find that far more trustworthy than an American accent.”

“You should try speaking to people with a Russian accent,” Alexi points out. “I never use it abroad unless there’s a specific purpose, everyone automatically assumes that you’re the villain.” He huffs a brief laugh. “American accents, the right American accent, just makes people think you’re an ignorant tourist, though, so it has its uses. The only person I’ve ever known who was able to get a Boston accent was Markos. He was uncannily good at them.”

Napoleon frowns. “Markos?” he asks. “As in the one from the spetsnaz and the SVR, the one who died a few weeks back, going back for his partner?”

Later, Napoleon would wonder whether if he’d had a high-speed camera, he would have been able to properly capture the shift on Alexi’s face as soon as he mentions Markos’ name. In the moment, though, he barely has time to blink before Alexi’s face twists in a snarl. He lunges forwards, and Napoleon doesn’t have time to brace himself before his head snaps back with the force of the punch.

The chair he’s on rocks backwards. For a moment it’s suspended, Napoleon on the edge of nothing, and then gravity remembers its role in the universe. There’s a sickening crack as Napoleon’s head connects with the concrete floor underneath him, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In pretty much any situation, Illya wouldn't point a gun at someone's head like that- you should only ever point a gun at someone if you are intending to shoot them- but he's really not in a good place right now and he's barely able to think straight. Also, Gaby was great fun to write in the first scene.
> 
> Also, I threw in the comment about MI6 and the double-ohs because I do have a vague idea for a crossover oneshot, but I'm not promising anything at all- I have a lot of future works already planned out that I will work on first.
> 
> There is also going to be a sequel to this story, but at the moment it is taking a looooong time to write (it's very meta and complicated), so there will likely be a gap between the finish of this story and the sequel. We'll see what happens.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and if you enjoyed the chapter, let me know in the comments! All your comments really do make my day.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go then, finally some explanation as to why Alexi is doing this...
> 
> A few people have gotten pretty close in guessing some of the reasons, but not quite all of them! It'll be clearer after reading this.
> 
> My hand is getting better, thanks to everyone who is asking- the swelling has gone down a lot and typing with two hands is a lot easier (my god, typing with one hand is the most tedious thing ever), and I'm only two weeks away from going on holiday for Christmas, which I'm very ready for.

The phone line crackles, and Illya curses. “Do we have better connection?” he asks, turning to look at Gaby. “If I lose it, I don’t know if Oleg will let me through again.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Gaby says quietly. She leans against her desk, folding her arms. They’re in her office, where Illya can shout himself hoarse at various Russian officials without scaring the rest of her agents, and where she can glance longingly at the desk drawer which contains the bottle of vodka. Illya has been on and off the phone ever since first getting in touch with Oleg, talking to old contacts and other officials, anyone he could get hold of and convince to stay on the line. Most of them haven’t been able to do much, but one or two of his oldest contacts, spetsnaz, had been willing to talk.

Still, they don’t know much. Anyone that Illya knew in the spetsnaz is too old to know Alexander well, but they knew enough to be able to say that Alexander had been hit fairly hard by Markos’ death, enough that they could tell him of the rumour going around that he’d nearly given himself alcohol poisoning the night Markos died, and that some other agent had had to stop him asphyxiating on his own vomit. It’s something, but it’s not enough. And it’s not enough to tell where Napoleon is.

“You don’t know that he’s going to be able to help,” Gaby reminds him again, jolting him out of his thoughts. “You have no way of knowing if he’s just playing a longer game here.”

Illya doesn’t have the energy to do anything but shrug. He doesn’t know, anymore, what to think. Napoleon has always been convinced that Oleg never cared for him, that he was only using him for his own agenda, but then Napoleon has seen all the scars the spetsnaz and the SVR carved deep into Illya, the PTSD that can still have him shouting himself awake at night or that drives him deep within his own head.

Napoleon never saw the little everyday moments, because he was never there. He never saw how after a tough mission, Illya would come back to his small SVR apartment to find a bottle of good Russian vodka waiting for him. He never saw how after waking up alone in a Moscow hospital, delirious with fever and half out of his mind with the silence and the strangeness of it all, someone added a little note to his medical file stating that he was easier to manage if the radio was left on in his hospital room. He could never have proved it was Oleg, but he knew similar things had happened to other agents.

Then again, Oleg routinely sent him into some of the most dangerous parts of the world without hesitation, with no praise when he returned bloody and bruised, the job done and another gouge carved into him from what he’d had to do to see it through.

He doesn’t know what to think. Napoleon was always the one who could read a situation like this to his advantage. Napoleon was always the one who knew what to say, exactly the right words and the right tone to get someone to open up, spill their secrets without them even realising they were doing so. He’s never been good at this, never been good enough at lying to everyone around him and to himself to make a character that stands up to any sort of scrutiny.

He knows the real Napoleon, the one that gets distracted by the latest rabbit hole in his research and drinks coffee until he shakes, the one that curls around him in bed and traces out the world across Illya’s skin. He knows that’s the real Napoleon, he’s sure of it. He has to be.

There is a click over the line, and Illya’s attention quickly turns back to the phone on the desk in front of him. “Kuryakin,” comes Oleg’s voice. “You really are stubborn.”

“You taught me to be,” Illya snaps in reply. “You made me like this.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” Oleg says shortly. “I cannot do anything more to find your…husband. Vasilyev cut all communications with the SVR shortly after the funeral. We don’t know where he is.”

“But you know something,” Illya insists. “You always know something. You have always known more than you said.” He slams a hand down on the table, flinching when the scrapes on his wrists protest. There’s only Gaby there to see his grimace. “Tell me how to get him back, Oleg.”

“Kuryakin,” Oleg says, his voice a low growl. “You are no longer an SVR agent. You are not even an UNCLE agent. You do not get to give me orders.”

Illya looks about two seconds away from smashing the table in half, and Gaby is half certain that it’s only his fractured ribs stopping him. He’s silent for a long moment, long enough that Gaby thinks Oleg might hang up.

“Please,” he says abruptly.

Gaby almost flinches at the scrape of his voice. “Please,” Illya says again. “Oleg, I am actually begging you now. I don’t care what you think, I don’t-” His voice breaks, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a brief second. “Please,” he says for a third time. “Just give me something.”

He doesn’t care that the army and the SVR spent nearly two decades together beating out any outward signs of weakness, doesn’t care that Oleg can hear the desperation in his voice. All of it falls to the wayside, gets thrown there gladly if it means he can have Napoleon back.

If he thinks about it too much, he should have always known how much he’s willing to do to get Napoleon back.

“I do not know where Vasilyev is,” Oleg states again. “I do not know how to find him. Kuryakin, you must realise that I am not able to help you.”

Illya curses under his breath, too quiet for Gaby to make out. He rubs a hand over his face. “I’ll owe you,” he says quietly.

“What was that?” Oleg asks, the connection crackling over the phone.

Illya looks up at Gaby. She’s shaking her head at him, but with the practice of many years he ignores her. “I will owe you,” he says, clearing his voice. “I will owe you a favour, Oleg. You know what that means.” He grits his teeth. “ _Please_.”

There is silence over the phone, enough that Gaby can hear the creaking of her chair as Illya shifts. It’s enough that even Illya starts to look nervous, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I cannot promise anything,” Oleg says eventually. “I will try, Kuryakin.” His voice turns muffled, sounding like he’s turned away from the phone as he issues quick orders in Russian. Gaby gives Illya a questioning look, but he shakes his head. He can’t make out what he’s saying, but the sound of it, that familiar sound of Oleg when he’s giving orders to people who he deems are too far below him to merit any sort of attention, is enough to make his hands tremble just a little.

“I will do what I can,” Oleg says, coming back to the phone. “But I cannot promise anything. I will call back in three hours. Understood, Kuryakin?”

Illya breathes out. “I understand,” he says quietly. “Sir.”

He doesn’t say thank you. It’s meaningless compared to what he’s already given up, the hand he’s all but thrown at Oleg in his desperation. Besides, he knows what Oleg will think if he tries to thank him. He’s already doomed himself. He doesn’t need to make it any worse.

The sound of the dial tone whines through his thoughts, and Illya hangs up. “That could have been worse,” he says quietly, glancing up at Gaby where she’s leaning against the corner of her desk.

“Yes, now I will only have to explain to Napoleon, when we find him with Oleg’s intel, that his husband has gone and promised a favour to his former handler,” Gaby snaps at him. “What the hell was that?”

“We will get him back,” Illya says stubbornly. “That is what matters, not whatever I gave Oleg in return. I will get him back.”

“You don’t even know if Oleg will come through,” Gaby says sharply. She glares at him, but Illya can barely see past the beginnings of a treacherous hope trying to beat through his fractured ribs. “You have no idea if your stupid promise will even get you anything.”

Illya just looks steadily at her, ignoring the pain in his chest, the ache at the back of his head and the lingering fuzziness at the back of his throat from those damn drugs. He doesn’t care what he’s just done. If it gives him a chance to get Napoleon back, then it’s worth it. Gaby rolls her eyes when he says nothing. “For God’s sake, Illya, what is wrong with you?” she asks. “Why would you make such a stupid bargain?”

“Because he is _my husband_!” Illya shouts. He surges to his feet, ignoring the pain that skitters through him at the movement. Right now it’s far away, happening to someone else’s body. It doesn’t matter. “He is _mine_ , Gaby, and I don’t care what I have to promise, what I have to do. If it will get him back to me, then I will do it! If I have to give up everything for him, then I will.”

“He wouldn’t want you to,” Gaby snaps back, staring right back at Illya despite the way he towers over her. “He would never ask you to. Napoleon will be furious with you when he finds out about this. And don’t tell me that you don’t care about that, because you do, and you will when this is all over. Don’t ruin your lives for some possible intel that you might not even get anyway.”

“I got us into this, I will get Napoleon out,” Illya says stubbornly.

At that, Gaby gives into the urge to roll her eyes. “I can’t believe I have to say this to you as well as to Napoleon, but this isn’t your fault! Stop acting like the entire universe revolves around the two of you and accept that sometimes, shit happens.” At that, Illya turns away, but she follows him, glaring a hole into his back. “What?”

“I should have known!” Illya snaps, turning on her so quickly that she actually takes a step back. He sees that, but the pang of grief at scaring her is so quickly swamped by the fury and guilt coursing through him, crushing his lungs. “I should have known this would happen, I should have seen it coming. I should have been better!”

At those words, the guilt robs the breath from his lungs and leaves him gasping. “I should have been better,” he says again, stumbling and then sinking into the chair that appears beneath him. “I should have been better.”

Alexander Vasilyev, the SVR, the spetsnaz, all of the past that he’s tried so hard to put behind him is now rolling over everything else. He realises now, staring at the carpet in Gaby’s office, that maybe he never should have walked away. And by doing so, he might just have killed the one thing he walked away for.

0-o-0-o-0

Other than the sharp pain at the back of his head and the sticky feeling of drying blood down his neck, coming round from being knocked out feels a lot like coming round from whatever drugs he’d had pumped into his veins earlier. Napoleon groans, instinctively reaching for the back of his head, but the zip ties dig painfully into his wrists and he stops short. “Fuck,” he mutters, squinting as he tries to open his eyes and everything blurs painfully. “I hate being knocked out.”

“I would apologise,” comes a smooth voice that sounds familiar, “but it is really your own fault.”

“I fundamentally disagree with that,” Napoleon replies. He squints against the blurriness until it slowly coalesces into Alexi sitting opposite him. “You are the one who abducted me and knocked me out. I’d say all of the blame sits with you for that one.”

“You said his name,” Alexi says sharply. “You don’t get to say his name. You killed him, you sent him to his death, so you don’t get to speak of him. He deserves better than you even speaking his name.”

Napoleon frowns at him. He remembers Alexi mentioning Markos, remembers the fury on his face when he said his name just before his chair tipped back and it all went black. “He died going back for his partner,” he says slowly. “How the hell is that my fault?”

“He died because of you!” Alexi shouts. “He went back because of you, took all of those stupid risks that made him think he was damn invincible _because of you_. You might as well have signed his death warrant.”

“I never even knew him,” Napoleon says slowly. He can’t work out where this is going, why all of this has happened because he’s being blamed for Markos’ death. His head hurts, and despite only just coming around he feels exhausted, battered and beaten down by the past few days. And beneath it all there’s a steady thud that murmurs _Illya_ with every beat.

“You didn’t have to,” Alexi spits at him. “Don’t you know how famous you and Illya are? Don’t you know the legends that follow you, the whispers and the rumours that you leave behind in your wake?”

“I don’t listen to fairytales,” Napoleon replies. “So no, I don’t know what we _leave behind in our wake_ , if that’s how to want to phrase it. And we’re not legends.”

Alexi just shakes his head. “Everybody knows who you are. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.” The way he says their names is almost reverent, drawn out in long syllables. “The best an agent can be. They can’t be killed, they can’t be hurt or pulled apart. They have morals and they keep to them, and don’t pay any cost for it. They walk into burning buildings and into firefights and walk away afterwards, they take any mission and see it through to the end, no matter how insane the task is or how many megalomaniacs they have to take down in the process. They’ve saved the world, over and over. We would all be dead if it wasn’t for them.”

“That’s not true,” Napoleon says cautiously. “We were just agents.”

“Every legend has some truth to it,” Alexi replies coldly. “And it is true. Solo and Kuryakin, the perfect partnership. They never left the other behind, they never turned their back on each other. Even when it threatened the mission they got each other out, they went back for each other when captured or injured or when everyone else was sure they were dead, and then they finished the mission anyway. You can’t kill them, can’t stop them, can’t turn them aside. Try to take one of them down and the other will be there to see that you die slowly and painfully, begging for it to end.”

“That’s not true,” Napoleon repeats, but his voice sounds weak even to his own ears. “We weren’t gods, Alexi. We were just agents.”

“The perfect partnership,” Alexi repeats. “So perfect, actually, that they fell in love and ran away together. No bloody ending like the rest of us know we’re going to get. No, they got to walk away. They got married and walked away into the sunset. No coffins, no funeral where people stand around in black wondering which one of them is going to be next. Just a happy ending.”

“Bullshit,” Napoleon says sharply. “You think we just turned and walked away without any trouble? You think we didn’t nearly kill ourselves trying to complete our missions, trying to save as many people as we possibly could? You think I don’t remember the people we didn’t save, the ones we were too late for, or the ones we killed because it was that or be killed ourselves? It wasn’t that fucking easy!”

“So, you remember Markos?” Alexi snarls. “Do you remember how he idolised the two of you, how he tried to be the best agent he could be by taking the same sort of insane risks that you did? He went back to get his partner because that’s what you would have done, that’s what Illya would have done.”

“And what’s worse is that you did it,” he spits at him. “You went back for each other and you lived, even when you should have died a thousand times over! And Markos, he knew your legend. He wanted to be _just like you_ , so he went back for his partner and _he died._ ”

“That’s not my fault,” Napoleon repeats.

“ _You killed him!_ ” Alexi screams, voice breaking under the strain. “You made him believe he could do anything! You and Illya and your fucking legend, what you became, it killed him!” He heaves a breath. “He was shot six times before he died, you know?” he asks, his voice strangled from trying to control it. “He had still been crawling towards the cells where his partner lay dead. He never made it before he bled out.”

“He was a spy,” Napoleon says coldly. “We die. That’s what we do.”

“Not the great Solo and Kuryakin,” Alexi replies. “You never die. You always manage to walk away.” He levels Napoleon with a look which reminds him that he is sitting opposite an SVR agent, someone who likely has the same lethality as Illya, and one that appears half mad with grief at that. “Do you see what I am doing?” he asks. “Do you understand?”

“I really don’t,” Napoleon says. He’s not surprised at the blow that comes at those words, the sharp pain across his cheekbone. At least this time the chair doesn’t fall and he stays upright.

“Don’t you understand?” Alexi hisses, digging his hand into Napoleon’s throat. “Don’t you see? If you’re not stopped then people will die. All those agents like me, the ones raised on the stories of you, they will keep dying trying to live up to your legend. It has to stop!”

“Oh, so this isn’t just revenge for Markos?” Napoleon asks.

This time, he manages to turn with the blow, just enough to lessen the punch. “You don’t get to speak his name,” Alexi hisses, spit flying from his lips. “You don’t get to talk about him. He is dead because of you!”

“He is dead because he was an agent!” Napoleon shouts back. “That is the risk we all take with the job. Just because I’ve managed to get by and not get myself killed, it doesn’t make me some sort of legend! He screwed up, and he got killed for it. Hit me all you like, but that won’t change.”

“You need to pay for what you’ve done,” Alexi snarls. For a moment, he looks remarkably like Illya in the way he moves, the way he bares his teeth. “You need to understand that there is no escape from the hell we all got dragged into. You don’t get to walk away and have your perfect little life with Illya, you don’t get to create this mess and then leave us here to die! That’s not good enough!”

“I never asked for this!” Napoleon shouts at him, lunging against the restraints tying him to the chair. “Illya and I never asked for any of this, we never asked to become legends. We’re just human, we were just doing our jobs! How dare you make us into these legends, how dare you tell these stories and then blame us when you believed in them?”

They were scared, that’s what they had been all those years. He and Illya, they had spent so much time terrified of dying, of losing each other, of this thing between them that made them so vulnerable. He remembers that fear, remembers lying awake at night watching Illya sleep and being paralysed with the thought that this could all get taken away from him so easily. He still sometimes does that, the fear lingering even now. It’s a hard thing to shake.

But the fear and grief are dwarfed now by the anger choking his breath from him, making him shout back at the half-crazed agent who could very easily kill him. He and Illya are not stories, they’re not legends that should be whispered to young agents in the dead of night. They were just trying to survive, and maybe find something to make it all worth it.

“How dare you?” he shouts again. “You don’t get to blame us for trying to live! You don’t get to blame us for the stories that you believed in! How dare you put this on us? We just wanted a life!”

“Well you don’t get one!” Alexi shouts back. “You’re going to watch everything burn around you, you’re going to watch Illya begging for me to end his life rather than keep living in the hell I’m going to put him in, and then you’re going to beg me to end your own life by the end of it all. I’m going to make sure that nobody looks up to you like Markos did, that you don’t get anybody else killed by your hubris and arrogance.”

He heaves a breath, staring at Napoleon with greedy eyes. “Watch it burn,” he hisses. “Watch it all burn.”

Abruptly, his movements jerky like someone else has taken control, he turns and stalks out of the room. Napoleon watches him go, seized with the sudden possibility that he has Illya somewhere, that he’s going to hurt him, kill him, just to bring this all down around them. “Touch him and I will kill you!” he shouts desperately after Alexi. “I’ll show you which stories you missed out on! I’ll make you pay!”

Alexi says nothing. The echo of his footsteps on the floor fade out as he leaves.

Napoleon twists his wrists, trying to loosen the zip ties. It’s hopeless, he knows it’s hopeless, but he keeps trying, even after he can feel the slick warmth of blood as the plastic cuts into his wrists. He can’t just sit here, tied to a chair in a concrete room. He can’t just do nothing.

The thought that Illya is in danger is enough to make him try again, straining to try and loosen the zip ties, casting wildly around for anything that might help him. A loose nail, a broken piece of concrete, even a rough area of the floor could be enough. But there’s nothing, not even a rusted pipe that he could break. A sob of frustration slips past his lips and he clenches his jaw as he struggles, tries not to let another one through. It’s pointless, much like working at the zip ties, but he keeps going until his wrists are raw, blood trickling down through his fingers.

This can’t just be it. He can’t just be expected to sit here. Illya is out there somewhere, and he can’t just sit here tied to this _fucking chair_.

He can’t help but scream, the fear robbing him of breath but giving him a voice, just for a few seconds until he’s left gasping once again. The sound peters out and he slumps in the chair, the only sounds his harsh breaths that tear through his chest, and the blood dripping down from his wrists to the floor in a steady patter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, Alexi is complicated. Quite a few of you have guessed at him being Markos' lover, but that's not really going to be revealed until the next story (which is slowly being written, a huge thanks to somedrunkpirate to listening to me moan about it), but there was obviously something massive there. But it's not as simple as him just avenging Markos' death.
> 
> I think my favourite line from the scene between Alexi and Napoleon, which I had held in my head for a long time before getting to writing it down, is the line that Napoleon shouts at Alexi: 'how dare you tell our stories and them blame us when you believed in them?' That's the core of this story, and the core of the sequel as well. It's gonna get meta, folks.
> 
> Also, Illya is a very unreliable narrator when it comes to Oleg, and this deal is going to be a problem. You'll find this out in the sequel.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slightly shorter chapter, as the next chapter is probably going to be quite long...
> 
> I actually had the topic of this conversation with Gaby pencilled in for much earlier in this story in my head, but it was around this point when writing that I realised I wasn't going to be able to finish this story properly in one story. Somedrunkpirate put up with a lot of worrying from me around the time this part was written, the upshot of it being that it is going to take a whole other story to properly tie off the events of this one. It is in the process of being written at the moment, but it is hard work (the narrative is the most difficult one I've ever done) so it might be a little while.
> 
> It's all going to come to a head fairly quickly after this chapter- it's pretty much revealed why Alexi is doing what he's doing, but some of his motives still aren't quite clear (as some of you have speculated about in the comments). You won't get any conclusive answers until the next story, but feel free to keep guessing in the comments!

She always forgets how differently Napoleon and Illya can react to a crisis until something happens. Besides, it’s been years since she’s last seen them in UNCLE, and it’s easy to forget the little things like this. Napoleon, when he’s hurting and lost as to what to do, will retreat to one of his hideaways to lick his wounds. She’s found him in the break room many times before, or that corner of the stairwell where the alarm won’t work if a penny is jammed into the system just so.

Illya, however, hasn’t left the command room since getting there, and has barely sat down for the past few hours. Gaby, having taken over a desk in the room and trying to field all the other problems that still happen, even in the midst of all of this, has been watching him pace. His steps have become increasingly erratic and dogged as painkillers wear off and exhaustion threatens to send him stumbling, but Illya doesn’t stop.

Finally, when he does actually stumble and has to grab the back of a chair, Gaby has had enough. “Illya,” she says, cutting through the chatter of the room as all her available agents work on finding Napoleon. “Come and review something for me. My office.”

Illya just grunts and follows Gaby out of the room. “What is it?” he asks once the door to her office closes behind them.

In answer, Gaby points at a chair. “Sit before you fall over,” she says. “I have some biscuits hidden away, if you eat some of those then you can have more painkillers.”

Illya shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he mutters. He heads for the door, but Gaby blocks his way and levels him with a glare.

“Sit,” she says firmly. “Eat something, take more painkillers, take just a couple of minutes to catch your breath. There’s a whole team out there working on finding Napoleon, on tracking Vasilyev down. Your absence for a couple of minutes won’t bring about the end of the world.”

Illya goes to speak again, but she levels him with another glare and he folds. “I’m fine,” he mutters, even as his hands tremble when he reaches for a biscuit.

“No word from Oleg yet?” Gaby asks, though she already knows the answer.

Illya knows that she knows, and levels her with a look. “It hasn’t been three hours yet,” he says. “He will call.” She just hums, and Illya rolls his eyes. “He will come through,” he tells her, sounding more convinced than she thinks he really feels.

“Maybe,” Gaby says. “But maybe he will just take the favour you owe him and never repay it. We should look at more substantial leads.” She pulls a biscuit out of the wrapper and eats half of it in one go. “I knew I should have gotten HobNobs instead of digestive biscuits.”

“We don’t have more substantial leads,” Illya mutters stubbornly.  He takes another biscuit, as if he’s only just realised how hungry he is. Gaby makes a mental note to send out a mass order for food. “You were our handler in all but name for years,” he says.

“Yes, you don’t have to remind me,” Gaby says. “What is your point?”

“You care for us, yes?” Illya asks. He almost smiles at the look Gaby gives him for that. “Why is it so hard to believe Oleg cannot care for me?”

“It’s really not the same,” Gaby says. “In any way.”

“But now, you are Director,” Illya continues stubbornly. “And you care for all of your agents.”

That wasn’t a question, so Gaby doesn’t bother answering it. Illya already knows the answer. Pretty much every agent in this building knows the answer, as she has spent a fair amount of time trying to make them less emotionally repressed and actually recognise things like this. “It’s still not the same,” she says, but the argument sounds a little weak even to her own ears.

“Oleg was my handler for best part of a decade,” Illya reminds her. “And he knew me since I was young, pulled me out of basic and put me into spetsnaz training.” He takes another biscuit, staring off into some middle distance only he can see. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Gaby hums. “What I think is that you’re desperate enough to get Napoleon back that you’re becoming blind to all the shit you’ve been through because of Oleg. It’s understandable, god does it make sense, but it might also be wrong. And you have to be ready for the possibility that you’re going to be wrong.”

“That’s what Napoleon said,” Illya murmurs. “After the funeral.” He looks like he’s going to say more, but trails off and eats another biscuit instead.

Gaby sighs, perching on the edge of her desk. It’s getting late, now. It should be impossible to tell within UNCLE what time it is, the building running constantly and the lack of windows in her office not helping, but she’s become so attuned to the way this building works that she can reliably predict rush hour even when she’s been holed up in her office for hours. The building is just as busy and chaotic as normal, but she can feel that creeping tiredness that only comes with the sun setting, the one that has the younger agents yawning and the older ones reaching for the coffee to get a head start.

Illya probably hasn’t noticed yet. He always used to be the one to drag Napoleon away when he stayed too late, stopping Napoleon from running himself into the ground over whatever he was obsessing over, but he hasn’t walked these halls in years. She thinks he still does the same, still stops Napoleon from diving too deep into his research at the Institute and makes sure he actually eats, but she’s not sure.

It’s been well over a year since Illya finally left this place and didn’t come back, but looking back on it, Gaby feels like she hugged him goodbye only a few weeks ago. It had taken a long time for Illya to really retire, to slowly work out how to leave, but ever since then it has been a whirlwind of quick dinners and runs around the park in between work, always busy trying to fill the hole that Waverly left and make it her own. She doesn’t really remember the last time she and Illya had a serious conversation, like the ones they’d have in the middle of the night in whatever godforsaken country they were in, a bottle of vodka between them. Recently all they’ve talked about is nothing, because there’s no time for her to explain everything important that’s going on. She avoided talking about UNCLE for weeks after Illya retired, afraid that even the mention of it would hurt, until Napoleon took her aside and told her to stop being stupid.

“Hindsight is a bitch,” she says eventually, because it’s been quiet for too long. “And it can make you forget the small things that made everything so hard at the time. You know this, Illya. And you know that Oleg, no matter what else you think of him, knows how to play the long game. From what I understand, it’s a game you helped him play at times.”

Illya gives her a glare, so Gaby knows that she’s right. “I’m just saying,” she says. “You’re willing to do whatever to get Napoleon back, that’s fine. I would probably do the same in your position. But just…just be aware that there will be consequences. And you will have to pay them.”

Illya looks up at her, stubborn written all over his face. “I wouldn’t do anything else,” he tells her. “And I will do anything to get Napoleon back.”

In that moment, Gaby really does believe him. He would burn the world down if it meant having Napoleon back. And just in that moment, late at night, she realises how terrifying that actually is.

“You know, with this job I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fall in love like you and Napoleon did,” she says quietly.

Illya frowns, staring at her. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

Gaby waves one hand. “Don’t look so concerned, I’m not whining about my lack of a love life to you,” she says. “What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that I won’t ever let myself do that whilst I’m here. It’s too dangerous.”

“I didn’t let myself love Napoleon,” Illya says, looking like he hadn’t meant to say that but couldn’t help himself. “It just happened anyway.”

Gaby tries not to sigh. “And that’s the problem,” she says. “I can’t let that happen to me. Not because I don’t want to have someone, god knows sometimes I’d like someone to share this craziness with, but because I have seen first-hand how dangerous this is. I’ve watched the two of you nearly die for each other far more than I was ever comfortable with. Madrid, Baghdad, Tokyo, hell, even right here in this city, and those are only the ones I can remember right now. How many times has one of you been downstairs in Medical and the other camped out in the chair next to the bed?”

Illya has to think, and that’s answer enough. “I’ve seen you two get hurt for each other too many times,” Gaby says quietly, “and I’ve seen you willing to die for each other even more. From an outside perspective, that’s scary.”

“You would understand if you found someone,” Illya says simply. “And I’ve seen you get hurt for both of us before. It can’t be that different.”

Gaby considers it. She hasn’t often been the one in the hospital bed, but it did happen sometimes, and she would never have let either of them take her place. It was always easier being the one hurt than the one sitting by the bed. But she has seen Napoleon and Illya so willing to sacrifice themselves for the other, and she doesn’t know whether it’s just because both of them have had such terrible pasts that they don’t value their own lives enough, or whether how much they love each other just eclipses everything else, but either way she doesn’t think it’s anything she’s ever experienced.

“I think it is,” she says. “Not that I don’t love you two, but it’s not the same.” She shakes her head. “But what is worse, I think, isn’t how often you’ve gotten hurt for each other, but how often you’ve killed someone else. How many times do you think you’ve killed someone for Napoleon’s sake? How many times have you hurt someone for him?”

“It was worth it,” Illya says, his voice getting cold. “And I would do it all again if I had to.”

“But didn’t it ever scare you?” Gaby asks. “All of the things you’re willing to do to protect him or get revenge, didn’t it ever terrify you? I’ve seen what you’re willing to do for him, I’ve seen all of the awful things you have done for him, and what he’s done for you. It honestly would terrify me, if I knew there was someone who was willing to do that for me.”

Illya shrugs. “Sometimes,” he says. “But I don’t regret it. I won’t ever regret it.”

“I’m sure you won’t, but still,” Gaby says. “I don’t think I’ll ever manage to fall in love like you and Napoleon have, not whilst I’m still here. It’s too dangerous.”

“It is,” Illya says simply. “It makes you…vulnerable.” He looks up at her, taking another biscuit. “It was worth it, though. Napoleon has always been worth it.” He shrugs. “I’ve always known how willing I’ve been to burn the world down for Napoleon.”

Gaby gives him a look. “God, and some agents here wonder whether the stories are exaggerated. If anything, they’re toned down from the truth. Some of them, at least. I don’t think anyone apart from myself, you and Napoleon knows what really happened in Kinshasa, and I want to keep it that way.”

Illya huffs. “Don’t listen to stories,” he cautioned her. “They are always wrong.”

“Oh, yours aren’t too far off,” Gaby tells him. “Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. The best a partnership can be. Be like them, and you might get through this intact.”

Illya scoffs. “Meaningless platitudes,” he mutters. “Designed to make scared young agents feel better. They don’t mean anything.”

“They mean a hell of a lot to the scared young agents listening,” Gaby points out. “Don’t think I haven’t missed how the rumours of you two have spread like wildfire around this place ever since you left. Hell, even other agencies talk about you in reverent tones. Solo and Kuryakin, the best agents this damn game has ever seen. Younger agents whisper your stories to each other in the middle of the night, your heroics of how you would sweep in out of nowhere and disappear again once the job was done, how you coordinated an attack without even speaking, how you never got hurt even when everyone else around you was falling down. Older agents reminisce about the time they met you on mission all those years ago, how you can now run into Professor Solo in London, teaching a class in the middle of the Tate, how the famous Kuryakin is sometimes seen running through Regent’s Park with his dog. Your stories give them hope, Illya, for whatever they want to believe in. That’s worth something.”

“It’s a lie,” Illya says. “It wasn’t that easy, none of it was. It was hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well, a lie is good enough sometimes,” Gaby says. She reaches for another biscuit, snapping a bit off. “You know, in all your stories, it’s remarkable how little I feature.”

At that, Illya looks up at her with a frown. “You saved us both more than we saved each other,” he says. “Why wouldn’t they talk about you?”

“Oh, someone always needs to write the stories,” Gaby says with a slight smile curling her lips. “Make sure they don’t go too off track. Besides, I’m still here. I’m their Director. I’m not the stuff of legends, I’m their boss.” She shrugs. “I’ve got this place to run, and the world to keep going. I haven’t got time for any legends. Anyway, I’d rather write my own when it comes to it.”

“You can’t write your own,” Illya says. “That’s not how legends work, that’s not how legacy works. Other people are ones who tell them.”

“Not if you know what you’re doing,” Gaby says slyly. “Your problem is that you weren’t attentive enough. You didn’t notice the tales being told about you. I’ve noticed mine, and I’ll make my own stories, thank you.” She glances around them, at her office, the place that she’s made into her own. The right word in the right place, the right thing done at the right time. It’s enough to write a legacy, if she wants to.

“You can have more painkillers now,” Gaby says, shutting of any thoughts of legends and a legacy and reaching for one of her desk drawers. She pulls out a box, clicking off the plastic lid to reveal a decent sized medical kit. “I’ve got codeine, oxycodone, meperidine…” She digs through the box, before shoving it over to Illya. “The doctor said you can probably take any opioid and you’ll be fine, even with the remnants of that fentanyl derivative in your system.”

“Did you raid Medical?” Illya asks as he shuffles through the box. Gaby lets him be. All agents end up working out pretty quickly which painkillers they work best on, which ones they can take to get as close to normal as they can. “This is extensive.”

“They gave it to me,” Gaby says. “Said it would be easier. This way I can get a debrief and start getting them patched up, or at least on some painkillers, at the same time.” She steals another biscuit from the wrapper on the table. “I should buy another pack. I should send out a mass order for food, actually, or get someone else to send it. What do you want?”

Illya just shrugs. “If you don’t give me some sort of answer then I’ll just get a mass order from Domino’s,” Gaby warns him, just to see him grimace. Illya’s hatred of Domino’s is still well-known within the agency. “Just give me a region. I can work with that.”

Illya shrugs again. “Chinese,” he says. Gaby is fairly sure he’s just saying that so she’ll stop asking, but it’s good enough. There’s a decent Chinese place a few streets away, and they have delivered here enough that they don’t ask questions when asked to bring masses of food over, often collected by people in various states of disarray.

“Fine, I’ll get someone to do a mass order, that should be enough even for you,” she says. “You got your breath back?”

Illya nods. Gaby isn’t convinced, but she’s well aware that short of drugging him to make him sleep, there’s little she can do. She just watches as Illya gets to his feet, doesn’t say anything about the way he winces or has to grip the back of the chair to stop himself from stumbling. He should be in Medical, she knows, but then a lot of things should be different right now.

“Let’s go,” Illya says, heading for the door. He pauses as Gaby reaches him, hand on the door handle. “Don’t try and stop me, chop shop girl,” he warns her. “Whatever happens now, don’t try and stop me from getting him back.”

“Darling,” Gaby says fondly. “I don’t think the entire world would be able to stop you if it stood between you and Napoleon. Just be careful. You’ve still got lives to live, once all this is over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been waiting to write that conversation for a while, so it was quite satisfying to finally get to it here! For anyone who isn't British, HobNobs are McVities biscuits (cookies for you weird Americans) which are crunchy oat biscuits normally coated on one side in chocolate. They're amazing. They're also, according to Wikipedia, the third top biscuit to dunk in tea here in the UK, which I can believe- they're really good when dunked in tea.
> 
> So I don't know how many people would be interested, but for those who don't know I have a tumblr account [here](https://theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com/). I don't usually post much about my fics on there (it's a disorganised mess, I've been on tumblr for a while and given up any pretence of caring about it looking nice) but if people are interested, I can post small updates on the sequel to this story (called Death of the Author, which should clue you in to both how meta and how angsty it's going to get).
> 
> Let me know in the comments if you'd be interested, and I can try to post updates every so often with a couple of teasers here and there!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my country almost became even more of a political clusterfuck last week, but our Prime Minister is still in power (for now) and nobody is yet trying to trample over her to get the leadership. Still, we're screwed. We're utterly screwed. I want to go away and live somewhere nice like New Zealand, where I can hide in Hobbiton and never emerge to face the growing rise of nationalism across Europe and America.
> 
> Anyway, on a more cheerful note... sorry for the delay in chapter, I meant to post it on the weekend but, well, I forgot. I've come home for the holidays and spent a lot of the weekend either sleeping, writing fic (I wrote something like 4k in two days on the sequel to this story, so I am making progress!) and starting Critical Role (in the likelihood that my productivity dips bc I fall headfirst into the realm of DnD and CR, please direct all your blame at somedrunkpirate, it's completely and utterly her fault).
> 
> Some more information on Alexi coming through in this chapter, and we're getting very close to the action now... Also, for everyone in the comments worrying about what this deal Illya has made with Oleg is going to entail and how bad it's going to be, just know that the 4k I wrote over the weekend was the beginning of those consequences hitting Illya and Napoleon, and I repeatedly messaged somedrunkpirate at intervals to let her know how mean I was being. So it's not going to be good...

Oleg calls back an hour later.

Illya tries not to let himself snap to attention as soon as he hears Oleg’s voice, but it’s difficult. It becomes even harder when Oleg turns out to have something, a solid lead that the analysts all jump at. “Sir,” he says, because he can’t bring himself to say thank you, and Oleg knows what he means.

“Remember what you paid for this, Kuryakin,” Oleg says. “I will give you some space after all of this, but I will ask you to repay this favour.”

Illya swallows. “Understood,” he says. “Sir.”

The dial tone sounds, and he just stands there for a long moment, staring at his phone on the desk. It takes Gaby to jolt him out of it. “It will take a couple of hours before the analysts have anything,” she says. “Illya?”

Illya shudders, and lets go of the edge of the table that he’d been gripping through the phone call. “Goddammit, Alexi,” he mutters. “Why the hell are you doing this?”

“He gave no inclination when he had you?” Gaby asks. “Nothing?”

Illya grimaces. “He said he wanted to watch us burn,” he murmurs. “I don’t know why, and drugs have made me forget most of it anyway. I never did anything to Alexi when I knew him. The most we interacted was when I helped teach him and some others when they first came to SVR. Oleg didn’t let me do much of that, I was always too valuable to waste my time on teaching, but Oleg liked using me to…inspire, I suppose, younger agents. Or terrify them.”

“You never went with him on a mission, never crossed paths with him whilst in UNCLE?” Gaby asks. “Hell, Oleg never tried to send him after you in a fit of rage after Waverly took you from under his nose? None of your contacts seem to know why he’s doing this?”

“He just disappeared,” Illya says. “Soon after funeral. That’s all I can get.” He rubs at his face. “I can try calling some more. Maybe now the hush order will be lifted, maybe they’ll talk now they know Oleg is talking.” He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the contacts.

“What about the person that Napoleon talked to?” Gaby asks. “They seemed like they wanted to talk. Napoleon tried to call in their debt to you, but they refused to pay it to anyone but you.”

Illya hums. He knows exactly who Napoleon called, and he’s surprised that he even managed to get her to answer, let alone keep her on the line long enough to work anything out from the little she said. “I can try,” he mutters. He dials the number from memory.

“Put it on speaker,” Gaby insists quietly. “I want to know what they say.”

The call picks up almost instantly. “Kuryakin,” a low voice says. “I suppose you are no longer captured?”

“Tell me why Alexi Vasilyev has taken my husband,” Illya says, his voice low. “Tell me now, and tell me how to get him back.”

There’s a rush of static over the phone as she sighs. Illya can picture the look on her face, the resignation that comes with that tone of voice. Judging by the ringtone, she’s in France, probably Paris if he knows anything about her, which he does. “Illya,” she says quietly. “Alexi is…unhinged, at the moment.”

“If you are going to make excuses for him, then I will hang up,” Illya snaps. “Do not try me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replies steadily. “And I am not making excuses. But you have not been to Moscow for a long time. You do not remember what that place does to us after enough time. Alexi is doing the only thing he knows how to do.”

“He has taken my husband,” Illya growls. “He has taken Napoleon. I don’t care why he’s doing this, I want my husband back and I want Alexi to answer for what he has done.” That maddening fury which had been dampened down by the hours of waiting, by Gaby’s solid, fierce presence at his side, even by hearing Oleg’s voice and being reminded of the rules that had governed much of his past, it’s rising again, curling up around his throat. “Tell me where he is. Tell me how to get my husband back.”

“Markos and Alexi were good friends,” she says at first, and Illya only manages to hold his tongue because of the glare Gaby gives him, and because he knows that she will have a point, if she is talking. “Alexi was distraught when Markos died, enough that-”

“Someone had to stop him drowning in his own vomit?” Illya asks. “I heard. What does that matter?”

“It matters, because whilst that person stopped him drowning in his own vomit, they got to hear some very drunk ramblings from Alexi,” she says. “He’s coming after you and Napoleon because of Markos’ death, Illya. Why do you think that is?”

“What, he blames us?” Illya asks. “How? I hadn’t spoken to Markos for months, and that was only to pass on some old contacts. I had nothing to do with his death. I didn’t know until Oleg called me.”

“He died going back for his partner,” she says slowly, sounding like he’s being particularly dense. “He died trying to pull off some insane stunt that would get any normal agent killed, trying to sacrificing himself for his partner. He succeeded in that, I suppose, though it mattered little in the end with his partner dead anyway. But does it sound familiar?”

Across from him, Gaby starts to gesture at the other agents who have gathered around them, listening in. It only takes a glare or two from her before they back off, turning away from the desk. “What is your _point_?” Illya gets out through gritted teeth.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” she asks, exasperated. “Markos believed in Solo and Kuryakin. Not actually the two of you, but the idea. We’ve all heard the stories, Illya. We all know what the two of you have managed to pull off together. Markos believed that he could do the same, and it got him killed.”

Illya is vaguely aware of the room falling silent around him. “Do you understand now, Illya?” she asks, but he barely hears her. “Do you understand why Alexi is doing this, why this is the only thing he can do? In his grief, he is blaming you and your husband for those deaths.”

“We are not…this was not our fault,” Illya gets out. “How can he blame us?”

“I don’t know his mind,” she says. Her voice has softened slightly, only enough that Illya would have noticed. “I don’t know how he has come to this conclusion, but he has. He is grieving, Illya, and he is one of us. This is what he knows how to do.”

“This is not Napoleon’s fault!” Illya snaps. “This is not my fault! We did not kill Markos, we did not make him go back for his partner. We aren’t even agents anymore.”

Even as he says it, he can hear the doubt over the line. Worse, there’s a creeping doubt slowly rising from the depths of his own mind, making his own words sound weak, his argument flimsy. It’s his and Napoleon’s stories, after all. They were the ones who did regularly manage to pull off the insane shit she’s talking about. They were the ones who did all of this. Those stories wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for them.

“Illya,” she says, an edge to her voice that’s enough to get him to turn his attention back to the phone. “This is all I know. Where he is, I don’t know, but if his plan is to take the two of you down? He’s one of us, Illya. You know how he thinks, how he operates.” There’s a pause. “Consider my debt to you still unpaid.”

“What?” Illya asks. “What are you-”

“It is still unpaid,” she says firmly. “You know better than to ask why, but I would ask a favour of you, as part of that. When you find Alexi, when you get to him…” She sighs slightly, a hiss of static over the phone. “Be careful, Illya. Be careful of what he wants.”

The whine of a dial tone cuts through the room as she hangs up. Illya breathes out, running a hand over his face. That’s all the weakness he’ll allow himself, that’s all he can let through until he gets Napoleon back. He needs Napoleon back. He doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know what to do without Napoleon there beside him. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Everything they’ve done, everything they’re known for, they were together. Split them up, and Illya doesn’t think any of these stories that Markos believed would endure.

“What does this give us, then?” Gaby asks. She stands close to him, a reassuring presence, but far enough away that Illya remembers she is still the Director here, still in charge of this agency and all the people under its roof. He’s grateful for it. If she were to start behaving like they used to, when it was just the three of them sent off across the world at Waverly’s whim, Illya doesn’t think that he would be able to keep straight what is the present and what is the past.

What comes next doesn’t seem to factor into any of his thoughts. It’s not important, right now, not when Napoleon is missing. He doesn’t have the energy to think of that, to think of what he’s going to do to Alexi when he finds him. Napoleon is all that matters.

Distantly, he wonders whether he should be scared of thoughts like that. It’s been such a long time since he last saw them, even in passing, and they mean so much more now that he’s not even meant to be in the game anymore. But he’s always known what he’s been willing to do for Napoleon.

“Alexi wants to hurt us,” Illya says, his voice distant. “He wants to make us hurt for what we’ve done to him. He’ll want me to find him. He won’t make it easy, but he will want me to find him.” He turns to Gaby. “Our house is secure, yes?”

“Agents have been on it since you first went missing,” Gaby says. “Well, in it, technically. They’ve promised to replace any food they eat. Mark is also there with them, with Laika. It was easier to keep all the variables under one roof. What about the Institute?”

“Too public,” Illya says immediately. “Too many variables. The amount of people who move around just the galleries would be too much to control. He wouldn’t be able to control it enough to hold Napoleon there, let alone get Napoleon in and out without raising suspicion. Especially as he’s now on his own.”

“Will he be on his own?” Gaby asks. “Those two men who dumped you on our doorstep, the ones that he shot, were obviously working for him, but seemed little more than hired muscle. Will he have picked up someone else?”

“Not this close to the end,” Illya replies. “He is SVR, he won’t get hired muscle unless he really has to. He will want to finish this on his own, confront me on his own.” He frowns, drumming his fingers on the table. “He will be somewhere Napoleon or I know, somewhere that means something to us, but small and private enough to control him.”

“If we cross reference that with Oleg’s intel on Alexi’s movements in the past few weeks, we might be able to find something,” one of the analysts says abruptly. “He’ll have to have worked the place out beforehand, scouted it out.”

“Well?” Gaby asks when the analyst doesn’t say anything else. “Get to it!”

The command room becomes, if possible, even more chaotic now that there is a solid lead to chase down. Agents are dispatched to cover the areas of London that are possible targets, anywhere that Illya can think of that means something to him and Napoleon. The town hall where they got married and had their reception, the restaurants they’ve been to on their anniversary, the park where Illya proposed, all of the major art galleries and museums that Illya can think of. Gaby adds a few suggestions, but mostly stays silent.

Illya tries not to let that bother him. Of course she hasn’t been as involved in their lives as she was when they all lived out of each other’s pockets, sent off across the world on missions together. Of course she hasn’t had time to hang around them in their retirement whilst she’s been busy building her own life here, making UNCLE into her own. It isn’t her fault that she can’t give the address of the dojo he teaches at, or the name of that pretentious little café Napoleon pretends to like ironically but actually drags Illya too as often as he can. It isn’t her fault.

He can repeat that all he likes, but it won’t stop the gnawing doubt eating away at his chest.

He’s hovering over the shoulder of the senior analyst, watching them run Oleg’s information against their own, when there’s a nervous cough from somewhere near him. He turns to see a young agent standing there, shifting their feet. “Uh, Agent Kuryakin, Sir?” he asks.

Illya just looks at him, and the agent, if possible, seems to pale even more. “Uh, the Director told me to tell you-”

“Spit it out, kid,” the senior analyst says wearily, barely looking up from her computer screen. “Christ, back when I was a rookie we had to go on missions with the big bad senior agents. If we couldn’t even talk to them, we couldn’t do our jobs properly.”

“Give him some slack,” another analyst mutters from another screen. “He’s not just talking to a big bad senior agent, he’s talking to _the_ big bad agent, who is currently in a fair bit of pain and whose husband has been taken. Besides, look at him. He must have practically been brought up on the stories. No wonder he’s a little scared.”

“What stories?” Illya snaps at them over his shoulder.

“Yours,” the first analyst says simply. “Yours and Solo’s. Don’t give me that look, Illya, you know perfectly well what I mean. Half of our job is done on rumours and legends. Anyway, what do you want, rookie?”

The agent holds out a bag, his hand definitely not trembling. “The Director said you should eat this,” he gets out.

“Is that it?” the analyst asks as Illya snatches the bag from him. “Food delivery? Christ, rookie, you need to grow a spine. Illya isn’t the scariest thing you’re going to encounter in this job. Close, but not quite. He is on our side, after all.”

“As long as we can get Solo back,” the other analyst mutters, looking back at their own screen.

The young agent gulps, the sound audible in the sudden silence that’s now fallen. The analyst sinks into their seat, eyes not leaving their screen. “Jesus,” the senior analyst murmurs eventually, glancing up at Illya. “Sorry, Illya. He didn’t mean anything by it.” She glares at the other analyst, who, if possible, sinks further into their seat. “Eat, Illya. We’re not going to find anything immediately, this list is going to take at least an hour to work through. You won’t do Solo any good if you’re hungry and can’t think straight.”

Illya doesn’t say anything, but the smell of Chinese food from the bag is beginning to make his stomach take over from the agent in him and demand that he pays attention. If nothing else, it’s something to do with his hands as he watches over the analyst’s shoulder. It takes enough concentration to work chopsticks properly and not get any sauce on the analyst’s keyboard that the roaring in his mind is able to quieten, just a little.

Gaby disappears in a flurry of agents as she snaps out orders to them, and doesn’t come back until all of the food is gone and Illya has returned to pacing up and down behind the analysts, for lack of anything better to do. “Anything?” she asks, leaning over an analyst’s shoulder.

“Nothing yet,” Illya says shortly, cutting the analyst off before she even says anything. “Which you would know if you had stayed here.”

“The entire world doesn’t stop spinning just because Napoleon is missing, and you know it,” Gaby snaps. “As much as I would like it to. I have to do as much as I can with the time that I have, with everything coming in from across the world and reaching these doors, let alone my desk. Do you know how many problems I’ve read about in the bare few days since you first went missing? Do you have any idea of the scale of this agency, how far we reach? Do you know how much I’ve had to put aside or delay because of you and Napoleon?”

Illya stares at her. “I would do it again in a heartbeat,” Gaby says, her voice quiet but no less firm for it. “For you and Napoleon, of course I would. But there are consequences to every single decision that I make, and being Director of this agency, I am answerable to more than my own damn conscience. Understood?”

Illya nearly, very nearly, stands up straight and answers _yes ma’am_. He stops himself at the last minute by imagining Napoleon’s face if he saw him do that, the quiet disappointment in the turn of his lips, the murmur of _Peril_ on his lips just loud enough for Illya to hear. “Yes, chop shop girl,” he says instead, any fight wilting, for the moment, at the thought of how disappointed Napoleon would be if he fought with Gaby over this. “I understand.”

He did, if he thought about it for any length of time. Gaby was no longer just his chop shop girl, the one who had run with them across the world at the drop of a hat, the one who would take apart any mechanisms she could get her hands on, parts of a car engine preferably, when stuck on stakeouts or in safehouses. He was suddenly immensely grateful that he had never had that amount of ambition or drive that Gaby used to get to where she is now, had never contemplated a career where he was giving the orders instead of following them. He thinks if he had, it would have driven him insane.

0-o-0-o-0

She thinks that maybe blaring alarms would be more fitting. Maybe some flashing sirens, automated systems that load rifles whilst simultaneously dressing the agents in tactical gear and dropping body armour onto them from above. Instead, all that she gets is someone standing up from a desk, turning to face her with a slightly shocked expression.

“I think I’ve got him.”

Gaby isn’t as quick as Illya as he surges from the chair she’d bullied him into when he’d stumbled on his bad leg, but she’s right behind him when they reach the analyst’s computer. “Look,” the analyst says, so intent on their computer screen that they barely flinch at Illya’s stony presence. “One of the smaller art galleries that you had on your list, Kuryakin, it’s recently moved somewhere else and the building, included the basement, is standing empty. And if you compare the location to the map of Vasilyev’s movements…”

The information that Oleg gave them was nowhere near complete, but it’s enough to see a vague map of Vasilyev’s movements in little yellow dots overlaying the view of Marylebone and surrounding London. Gaby studies it, but tears her eyes away when she hears a sharp intake of breath from Illya beside her.

“What?” she asks quickly. Illya all but pushes the analyst out of the way, taking over the mouse and keyboard.

“If you connect these points,” he mutters, doing so on the screen, “and assume some points are missing, here, and then if you take that he’s moving in not the most obvious pattern, then…” He leans back slightly, and Gaby stares at the screen. It looks like a bunch of squiggles.

“Classic SVR technique,” Illya says impatiently. “For staking out location without drawing attention from civilians or enemy agents. Napoleon is there. He has to be.”

He turns, and Gaby can see the intent written in the lines of his body. “Stop,” she says sharply, enough heat in her voice that the room falls all but silent. “Fifteen minutes to establish point of entry on the building and come up with a semi-coherent strategy. Fifteen minutes for you to get your gear, pick out which guns you want to take, and brief the rest of the tac team on what they might expect from Vasilyev. Fifteen minutes, and I won’t chain you to a damn desk to stop you running out after Napoleon on your own and getting yourself killed.”

Illya stares at her, but Gaby stares right back. He doesn’t scare her, he couldn’t ever do that to her. She’s seen him in any state she cares to name, from the heights of happiness to nearly dying, from episodes that have left him speechless with rage to being inconsolable when it was Napoleon’s turn to nearly die. She’s seen what he is willing to do for Napoleon, even for her, and it no longer surprises her.

Besides, she can see the instinctive reaction within him at her tone of voice, echoing Waverly’s orders from those years together. She thinks that some part of him won’t ever hesitate to follow that voice, whatever part has never stopped pacing up and down these halls.

“Fifteen minutes,” she says firmly. “Go and get ready.”

Illya snarls at her, but stalks off. Gaby only has to nod for three other agents to peel off and follow him, just in case he decides to try and go off on his own without any backup like his husband. Then she’s drawn up into the chaos of trying to find everything that they need within the time frame she just gave all of her agents. The tac team are rushing through the building, snatching up blueprints of the building as soon as they’re printed off by the analysts. The analysts, in their turn, are clustered around computer screens, frantically trying to find everything they need and compile it all in the time limit Gaby has imposed on them.

There’s a quiet sound, and then Aja comes to stand beside her. “Director,” she says quietly, watching the door that Illya disappeared through. “Are you sure he should come?”

“Would you like to try and stop him?” Gaby asks. “Go ahead, give it a go. He knows who you are, so I think he’ll be kind and only incapacitate you.” She shakes her head, watching as Illya appears briefly, snatching a file from someone before stalking off again. She can just about see the limp in his gait, the stiffness in how he moves. He’s hurt, but she knows that means nothing to him at the moment.

“He’s too close to this,” Aja warns her. “He’s compromised. He’s _desperate_. If something goes wrong, I won’t be able to guarantee his safety. I have to look after my own people first.”

Gaby breathes out. She’d been expecting this, ever since Illya had made that bargain with Oleg. “I know,” she murmurs quietly. “But regardless of how desperate he is, he knows better than anyone here how Vasilyev will work. He’ll know what to expect.”

Aja hums, sounding unconvinced. “I won’t be responsible for him, Director,” she says. “I will do my best to stop him if I need to, but if he is determined to do something suicidal to save Solo, I won’t risk my team trying to stop him.” She shakes her head at the look Gaby gives her. “We are talking about Kuryakin and Solo,” she says. “We’ve all heard the stories.”

“I’ll do what I can to contain him on the ground,” Gaby says. She shakes her head at Aja’s look. “What, did you think I would be content to stay here and watch from a screen?”

Aja gives her an amused look. “Director, I’d already worked out preliminary plans which included you,” she replies. “I really wasn’t expecting anything else from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The woman on the other end of the phone, the one that Illya talks to- I have vague plans for her in the sequel, though she hasn't turned up yet at the bit I am working on, so you may end up seeing her in person at some point. When she tells him to 'be careful of what he wants', that is going to mean something pretty soon. If anyone can guess at what it is Alexi really wants, have a stab in the comments and I'll tease you with cryptic clues!
> 
> The sequel itself is progressing, and hopefully now I am on holiday for three weeks over Christmas (thank god for saving up time off work) then I will be able to write a lot more, but it's still a pretty long way away from being finished. There is going to be a gap in between the end of this story, which probably has 4-5 more chapters left, and the start of the sequel. I am sorry about that, but I have a Lot on in my life right now and finding dedicated time to write, especially with a story as intense and narratively challenging as this sequel, is hard. It will get done. I promise you, 100% barring extreme circumstances in real life that would stop anyone from writing, it will get done.
> 
> Anyway, I will try and remember this time to get the chapter up on the weekend (we'll see how that goes). Hope you enjoyed, and as always, comments are cherished and loved!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this chapter being late yet again! You can all blame somedrunkpirate again, I have been very distracted by watching critical role and completely forgot to put this up over the weekend.
> 
> I hope people aren't too mad at me after reading this one...

The rifle is a heavy, familiar weight across his back, the strap digging into his shoulder. Less familiar are the lockpicks in his hand, the tiny grooves he can feel beneath his fingers. Napoleon would have had this door open already. Napoleon would be laughing at him right now, fooling around with lockpicks like this.

Still, Illya knows that he didn’t always zone out and stop paying attention when Napoleon worked his particular art. He ignores the agents spread out around him, the ones watching the various vulnerable points as he kneels here, trying to open the back door to the building this abandoned gallery is in, where they think his husband is being held. Gaby is close by, he knows, but he hasn’t dared look at her ever since they got in the trucks and sped through London, every second wasted feeling like far too many seconds just given up.

For about the third time, someone tries to suggest battering the door down. Illya doesn’t even bother looking up to glare at them. The lock is finally starting to yield under his hands, the little bits he remembers from watching Napoleon, and Napoleon’s few attempts to pass on some of his skills, just about enough to get him through. A final twist, a tiny bit of pressure, and there’s a quiet click.

Illya breathes out, and carefully pulls back. “It is unlocked,” he says quietly. “Don’t open- stop!”

He snaps at an agent who is reaching for the handle. “Do not touch it,” Illya says, his voice low. “Alexi will have left measures.” He lowers himself to the ground, taking out a small torch and shining it through the gap underneath the door. “Tripwires, alarms, anything he could rig up in a few hours, maybe more if he had this planned.”

“Are you sure?” someone asks over his shoulder.

“It is what I would have done,” Illya mutters. He takes out one of the lockpicks, reaching it under the door and using it to feel along the floor just on the other side. “It is what he was taught to do.”

The lockpick catches on something, and Illya pauses. Carefully, he pulls the lockpick towards him, and sees the glint of a trailing wire in the torchlight. “Give me grounding clip,” he says, holding one hand out behind him. “Quickly.” Someone presses something into his hand, and he clips it to the wire, working it through the insulation until he can feel the copper beneath. The other end he connects to another wire, letting it fall to the ground away from him. Someone else does something to it, probably so that it doesn’t electrocute anyone by accident, but Illya doesn’t care. He gets to his feet and gently turns the door handle.

Nothing happens. There is a collective sigh of relief that manages to permeate the air, though nobody actually makes a sound as Illya eases the door open, an agent at his shoulder with their rifle ready. “Clear,” Illya murmurs, stepping cautiously through the doorway. He knows that he has a reputation of rushing through missions impulsively, not stopping to consider the damage left behind, but this, this is too important. This, he can’t get wrong.

Agents fan out through the first room, covering the other exits. Illya ignores them. Now that he’s here, he knows where he needs to go. He knows what he would have done in Alexi’s place, knows what they have been taught to do, what has been carved into their bones all those years ago. He can almost hear his training instructors in his ears, berating them over minute mistakes in their plans, gruff words teaching them how to infiltrate and kill. Besides, Napoleon is somewhere in this building. His husband is somewhere here. That’s all that matters now.

There’s a cascade of thoughts trying to batter through him and sweep him off his feet, but he locks them away with a ruthlessness that somewhere, in a dim corner of his mind, surprises him. He thinks briefly that it shouldn’t. He’s always known what he’s been willing to do for Napoleon. It shouldn’t surprise him what that could make him into.

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon can barely hear anything through the roaring in his ears, the frantic thud of his heart. Alexi has been gone for what feels like days, but he’s been watching the passage of that thin sliver of light through the window, high up on the wall but probably only just at street level, judging by the angle, and he knows that it’s been less than an hour since Alexi was last here.

His hands are almost numb, and he can feel the dried blood sloughing off them as he starts pulling at the zip ties again, falling away in flakes to the floor where he can’t see them, only to be replaced by trickles of fresh blood as the cuts circling his wrists open up again. He twists, and with a sudden scrabble against the back of the chair he’s tied to, he finally manages to get them in the position he’d been aiming for since the sheer flood of helplessness had quietened enough for him to think, like he should have been thinking ever since this whole thing began.

Napoleon closes his eyes, just for a moment, and forces himself to bite down on the collar of his shirt that’s just within reach. With a sudden, jarring movement and a pop that reverberates through his arm to make him feel faintly sick, he manages to slip one hand out of the zip ties.

It should be short work to get the other hand free, but with only one working hand it takes what feels like minutes before he’s finally able to bring his arms back in front of him. His shoulders scream at him for the sudden movement, the blood coursing back to his hands accompanying the skittering of pain through his body. Napoleon curses under his breath, but keeps moving. He has no idea how much time he has.

He has no idea if he’s already too late, if Alexi has already accomplished this twisted fantasy of his, but he thinks he would know if he had. He thinks Alexi would want to show him everything.

He doesn’t really know what to think, but this line of thought allows him to pop his thumb back into the joint, undo the ties around his ankles and get out of the chair on shaking legs. The basement is bare, not even a handy rock or a chain that he can use as a weapon, so Napoleon staggers for the door instead. The room is dim, but enough light filters through that basement window that he can just make out the door. Mercifully, it’s unlocked and opens under his hand. Napoleon doesn’t think that he could have managed to pick the lock with the way his arms are hanging useless at his sides as the blood rushes back through them, even if he had a set of lockpicks to work with.

Concrete stairs lead up and he follows them, the bare walls abruptly giving way to cool cream paint when Napoleon inches open the door at the top. The dark wood floor is cold beneath his feet, which he suddenly realises are bare. He hadn’t even noticed as he’d hobbled across the room and up the stairs, too distracted by the pain skittering down his arms and the steady thud in his ears that murmurs _Illya_ with every beat.

He recognises the room almost instantly. Not where it is, he has no idea where Alexi has taken him, but the tall glass cases lining each wall, more artistically placed across the room and that faint smell of paint, even with all those empty display cases, is something that is slowly becoming as fixed in him as his thieving days. The day he doesn’t recognise an art gallery, even a forlorn one standing empty, is the day…

Well, he doesn’t know what the hell that day would be. It would just end badly.

Still there’s nothing to use as a weapon, and Napoleon creeps forwards because he doesn’t know where else he’s meant to go or what he should do. Illya could be here. Illya could be safe in the middle of UNCLE headquarters with Gaby. Illya could already be dead.

Out of all those options, Napoleon knows easily which one he should prefer, and which one a small part of him selfishly wants to be true. He needs Illya. Even when he was taken on missions, even when the villain of the week has him tied up in the inevitable damp basement or abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere, he always knew that Illya was somewhere on the other side, crashing through everything with all the tactfulness of a bull in a china shop in order to get him out. Now, he doesn’t know. It’s been years since that last happened. He doesn’t know if Illya is alive. He doesn’t know if this is still how the world works, or if everything has moved on and left them behind whilst they’ve been gone.

He doesn’t know, and it’s stealing the breath in his chest as he makes his way through this empty gallery. He thinks he remembers walking through this room months ago, only instead of torn up bare feet that are leaving spots of blood across the wood he was in tuxedo shoes, a champagne flute in one hand and Illya’s hand in the other. He thinks he remembers there once being art here, paintings that he studied until Illya pulled him along, an easy smile on his face as he talked to an artist about the best way to achieve such fluidity in a sculpture.

He thinks he remembers, but he can feel the tackiness of blood drying down the back of his neck, more across his wrists and hands, and he doesn’t know anymore.

The first gallery room is clear, but Napoleon knows it won’t be that easy. He has no weapon, nothing to do if Alexi is waiting around the corner. But he can’t just stay in this one room, so he steps around the dividing wall into the second room.

It looks clear, more glass stretching out in front of him, distorting the far wall and the door there. Then there’s a quiet click, and the air behind him changes.

“Nice try, Solo,” Alexi murmurs, moving just enough so that Napoleon can see the gun out of the corner of his eye. “If you’re so eager to be up here, then you might as well stay. Illya will be here soon, I’m sure. Oleg will have given in to him by now.”

There’s another chair, accompanied by more zip ties, and Napoleon tries not to wince as the plastic cuts into the ragged skin around his wrists. He fails, judging by Alexi’s quiet huff. “Americans,” he mutters to himself, but offers no further explanation to Napoleon. Instead, he picks up a phone and starts tapping at the screen, standing across from Napoleon in the corner of the room.

“I’ll give the British this, they are suitably paranoid for my needs,” he says, flashing a fleeting smile at Napoleon. “Enough that it only took me a couple of weeks to find this place and get access to what I need. The security measures here are great, and this is only an art gallery. Imagine what Buckingham Palace is like.”

Napoleon eyes him warily. “You seem calm,” he says, mainly to distract from the way he’s trying to work at the zip ties, see if he can get his hands loose again like he did before.

“It’s all coming together, Solo,” Alexi days, drawing out his name on his tongue as he types something on the phone. “It’s all falling into place, just like it should be doing.” He clicks his tongue at something on the phone. “Your husband is horribly predictable. Here he comes, the cavalry rushing behind him. And he’s spotted the trap I left on the back door.”

“He’s coming for you,” Napoleon says, trying to wrestle back that brief flare of hope from hearing Illya is coming. “He won’t stop until he gets you.”

“I’m counting on it,” Alexi replies, a grin spreading his face that reminds Napoleon of the same man screaming at him because of everything their stories have done. He looks nothing like Illya, in this moment, none of that steady, patient danger that Illya used to carry so easily on the job. He just looks unhinged.

Napoleon, in amongst the spiralling guilt beginning to settle, the beat of _Illya_ that is growing more frantic with every second, wonders briefly if there is more to Markos and Alexi than maybe even Alexi realises. There’s a madness just visible beneath his skin that he thinks he might, in a different life where everything went wrong, have recognised. It’s a strange thought, and fleeting. There are more important things to think about right now, and that beat of _Illya_ is growing louder and louder until it’s stealing the breath from his chest.

Alexi hums under his breath, putting the phone back in his pocket. “Here we go, then,” he says, and Napoleon flinches at the smile on his face.

0-o-0-o-0

Illya spins on his heel, just quickly enough to see the agents behind him rushing forwards before the security doors slam shut, cutting them off. A motion sensor blinks calmly at Illya from where it perches above the door.

Illya growls, but stalks on into the room, raising the rifle so the butt sits firmly against his shoulder. Gaby will find another way into the gallery, and if it takes her a few minutes, then that’s just a few extra minutes to gut Alexi for what he’s done without her seeing. He breathes out, letting the grip of the rifle, the weight of it in his hands, settle into his frame. His boots barely make a sound on the wooden floors.

He’s noticed the gallery, the glass that bends the light until the walls look distorted behind them, noticed the empty gaps where there used to be art. He remembers being here, with Napoleon, but he knows that like he knows that there is snow on Everest right now; it is distant, and does not matter. Napoleon is here. He has to be here. That’s all that could matter.

The first room is clear, and Illya keeps moving. He is exposed, and it scrapes at him, but until Gaby and the rest of the team find a way past Alexi’s measures and get into the gallery then there is nothing he can do. He keeps moving, barely a sound past the soft noise of his boots on the wooden floors.

He rounds a corner, rifle firm against his shoulder and finger against the trigger, and Napoleon stares back at him from the other side of the room.

Everything comes rushing back to him, until he can barely hear over the roaring in his ears. He’s briefly aware of the rest of the room, Alexi absent from the few shadows that have found their way inside despite all of this glass surrounding them, but it falls to a distant second as he crosses the room to Napoleon. Illya doesn’t think he’s imagining the relief he can see in Napoleon’s face, marred by worry and something else that is too much for Illya to work out right now.

“Cowboy,” he breathes out, and then he’s at Napoleon’s side, fingers ghosting across his cheek. “Are you hurt? Napoleon, are you okay?”

Napoleon mouths something against the gag in his mouth, and Illya drops his rifle quickly enough for it to hit his knees on the sling as he reaches up, tugging the gag away. Napoleon spits it out to one side. “Alexi is here,” he says urgently. “Alexander Vasilyev, from the SVR, from Russia. He’s after us, he’s coming after us, he thinks we…god, I don’t know what he thinks, but he wants us dead. He’s planned this, Illya, he knew you were coming.”

“Let him come,” Illya snarls, pulling out a knife and cutting the ties around Napoleon’s wrists. “Let him come for us. I will stop him.” He will finish him before he ever touches Napoleon again. He has to stop for a moment, the rage catching his breath and setting it alight, burning his lungs until he’s breathing nothing but ash.

Napoleon can see it all. He reaches up, hands covered in blood that has dried and cracked, and gently grasps Illya’s wrist. “Peril,” he says quietly, and just like that Illya can taste air again.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, pulling Napoleon to his feet and steadying him when he falters. “Can you stand?”

“I can do whatever you want me to do, Peril,” Napoleon replies, a quick grin curling his lips that prompts an answering one from Illya without him even thinking about it. “There’s a fire exit in the other room. Even if Alexi has shut this place down, that will still open. Eventually.” He braces himself on Illya’s shoulder for a moment, falling to his left-hand side and allowing Illya to bring his rifle back up.

Illya wants nothing more than to stop and feel for himself that Napoleon is alive, that he is warm beneath his hands, gather him in his arms and never let go. But Alexi is here, Alexi is somewhere in this building, and that rage makes his hands remain steady on the rifle. His finger curls slightly around the trigger.

“You’re hurt,” Napoleon says as they slowly move towards the supposed exit, Illya trying to cover all exits. Alexi is still nowhere to be seen, there has been no sign of Gaby and the tac team, and beneath the rage coursing through him there is a less familiar worry struggling to be heard. “He hurt you.”

“I’m fine,” he says shortly, though he lets himself brush up against Napoleon’s shoulder briefly, a better answer than anything he could speak right now. “We need to keep moving.”

They’ve barely taken another step when there’s a sharp crack. The glass case next to them explodes in a fierce shower of glass. Illya drops down, grabbing Napoleon with one hand and pulling him down even as Napoleon reaches for him as well. Glass is strewn across the wooden floors, more caught in Napoleon’s hair and across his back, and Illya can feel the same covering him. He looks up, rifle steady in his hands, to see a figure standing across the room.

“Alexi,” he growls, rising to his feet. Glass crunches under his feet. “Alexi, what are you doing?”

Alexi levels the gun in his hands at them. “Put the rifle down, Illya, or this time I won’t just shoot the glass.” Illya doesn’t move, and Alexi grins. It’s the grin of a mad man. “You won’t shoot me just yet, Illya. You can’t. Don’t you see it? You don’t know how it ends yet.”

“All I can see is a madman,” Napoleon remarks, getting to his feet and trying to put himself in front of Illya even as Illya moves to shield him. He brushes shards of glass out of his hair, careful not to get any on Illya. “You’re somewhat playing to stereotypes, Alexi.”

Alexi turns to aim his gun steadily at Napoleon. “And you have done exactly what I thought you would do,” he replies. “Markos- it was all your fault. You have done this, you have brought this upon yourselves.” He laughs, and it’s bitter and full enough of grief that Illya almost forgets his rage. But then he remembers the gun in Alexi’s hand, where it’s pointed, and it’s all too easy to remember.

“We didn’t kill Markos,” Illya snarls. “We didn’t touch him.”

Alexi’s face twists and contorts. “You killed him, you led him to his death and you let him die, on his own and afraid,” he snarls. “He died because of you.”

“He died because that was his _job_!” Illya snaps. “He was a spy, he was an agent of the SVR, and that is what we do! That is not our fault, that has nothing to do with us.” He stares at Alexi, seeing traces of the young man he’d once helped train, once walked beside across the tundra, sat next to on a boring drive out to some mission. His aim wavers slightly.

“ _Alexi_ ,” he pleads. “This isn’t you.”

“This is exactly what they made me!” Alexi snarls, spit flying from his mouth. “This is everything they turned me into. You know what this is, Illya, you know what they do to you.”

Illya stares at him, trying to find some train of logic, some sort of reasoning to counter Alexi, to not believe everything that he’s saying. It keeps slipping from his grasp. “You killed him,” Alexi hisses at them, taking a breath and steadying the gun in his hands. “He believed in you, he believed in the great Solo and Kuryakin. And you killed him, you left him to die!” The gun swings back to Napoleon, Alexi seemingly not even seeing it as he stares them down. “You ruined his life and I will see you pay for it, don’t you see?”

“See what?” Napoleon asks. Illya can feel the warmth of him as he shifts closer, bloodied hand brushing against his side, and he briefly wants nothing more than to let go of this heavy rifle and take his hand, run away with him and never come back to this, Alexi and UNCLE and the familiar feeling of a weapon in his hand and a hundred more weapons running through his body. But Alexi is standing there, little Alexi who had always been quiet and calm, already the beginnings of an effective agent when Illya knew him, and he has a gun levelled at them.

“See what?” Napoleon repeats when Alexi doesn’t answer him. The gun doesn’t waver from him.

“That there is no going back from this,” Alexi snarls. “That you don’t get to walk away. You don’t deserve that, not after everything that you’ve done. You don’t get to walk away and leave the rest of us scrambling in this _fucking mess_ of a world that you helped make!”

He heaves a breath, wiping at his mouth with his free hand. “You don’t get to have that, Illya,” he says. “You don’t deserve it. You can’t just walk away to your nice life, your husband and town house and your dog, that little life you’re pretending to live. You can’t just pretend that none of what you did happened, not when it’s getting people killed.”

“I don’t pretend,” Illya says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “We don’t- Alexi, I remember all of it. I know everything that I did.”

“You don’t get to walk away when the rest of us can’t,” Alexi gets out between gritted teeth, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the gun. “You don’t get to make these stories that get people killed.” He swallows heavily. “He deserved better. He deserved more than what you gave him.”

“Don’t you get it?” Napoleon snaps at him, stepping forwards before remembering the glass strewn around them and his bare feet, and only just holding himself in check. “We didn’t kill Markos! We didn’t touch him! He died because he screwed up, or because he ran out of luck, or because of any of the hundred reasons an agent might die on the job. That’s what the job does. It was nothing to do with us.”

Alexi’s grip on the gun tightens even more. “I have to stop you,” he says, his voice thick. “I have to stop this. How can you stomach knowing that good people die because they think they can do what you did? Markos died because he believed in your stories, because he was trying to prove himself to be as good as you, when he was better than you ever were! So many agents, so many people are going to die if this continues, trying to live up to your legend. _It has to stop!_ ”

Illya tries to press back into Napoleon, feel the reassuring warmth of his body next to him. Alexi’s face is twisted in a snarl, but the gun is steady as he points it at them.

A shrill beeping suddenly cuts through the room, and Alexi’s face slackens. “No, no this isn’t right,” he says, frantically digging in one pocket and pulling out a phone. He stares at the screen, at a camera feed of a slight figure moving through a gallery, dark figures with rifles behind them. “No, no, this isn’t what’s meant to happen, they weren’t meant to get through so quickly. I was meant to have more time! I need more time! They have to wait!” He sends the phone clattering across the floor, breaking into pieces as it smashes into the opposite wall, and turns to Napoleon and Illya. “You don’t get to take this from me!” he shouts, his voice cracking and breaking through the tears now rolling down his face. “This has to end!”

Illya sees the gun fire before Alexi pulls the trigger. He drops his rifle, throwing himself at Napoleon, but Napoleon is already moving towards him. As the crack of the gunshot echoes through the gallery they collapse in a tangle of limbs. Napoleon screams.

It’s a short sound, cut off quickly by gritted teeth, but the sound ricochets through Illya until it leaves him gasping. He rolls off Napoleon, ignoring the glass that cuts into him as he pushes himself to his knees. “Napoleon,” he says frantically, hands shaking as they turn him over. “Cowboy. Please, Napoleon, please.”

Napoleon groans, rolling the rest of the way over. He’s clutching his side and crimson is spreading beneath his fingers, but it’s not too much, it’s not the sickening flood to pool across the wood beneath them that Illya had feared. He presses his hands down over Napoleon’s, and Napoleon arches underneath him, a cry bitten off in his throat.

The sound of glass crunching beneath feet makes Illya look up, and he sees Alexi stumbling, a look of horror on his face. “This wasn’t how it was meant to happen,” he whispers. “This isn’t…this isn’t how it was meant to go! I planned it, I planned all of this. And I did it for him! I did it for him, and now it’s all ruined. You ruined it, you break everything you touch!”

Illya snarls at him, knelt over Napoleon, the blood warm and slick beneath his fingers. “I will end you for this,” he promises, his voice low and rough in his throat. “Do you understand that, Alexi? I am going to end you for what you have done, and even that will be too good for you.” He takes his hands away from Napoleon’s side, reaching for the rifle hanging from its sling.

A hand grasps his wrist. “Peril,” Napoleon says quietly, looking up at him with clear eyes. There’s glass in his hair again, glittering under the gallery lights. “Don’t. Show a little bit of mercy.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Illya growls, hands still on his rifle.

Napoleon just looks weary. “You do,” he murmurs. He grips Illya’s wrist with his free hand, the other still trying to staunch the blood leaking from his side. Blood smears beneath his fingers, streaked across Illya’s wrist. “Illya.”

Illya’s hands let go of the rifle.

From somewhere behind them there’s a loud crash, and Alexi stumbles back. “You can’t be allowed to keep going,” he mutters, eyes staring off into some middle distance that Illya and Napoleon can’t see. The gun comes up, wavering as his hands shakes, and Illya tries to curl himself over Napoleon on the floor. “You can’t- Markos died, he is dead and gone and I’ll never have him back. You can’t walk away from that, you can’t-”

There’s a clicking sound from behind him, and Alexi suddenly convulses, a whimper forcing its way past his lips as he seizes. He topples forwards, and the gun in his hand falls away to clatter harmlessly on the floor. Copper wires glint from his body, back to the taser in Gaby’s hands. She lowers it, and the look of fury slowly fades from her face as she looks up to see Illya and Napoleon.

Agents rush in, grabbing hold of him almost as soon as he hits the floor. Alexi struggles, but the agents barely pay any attention to it as they start to drag him away. “Illya!” Alexi shouts desperately, throwing himself against the agents. “Kill me, Illya! I know you, I know what you should do! You should have killed me! Illya!”

Illya barely hears him. As soon as the threat of Alexi is dragged away, his desperate cries fading out, he turns back to Napoleon. The bleeding is slowing now, enough that he can let go of Napoleon’s side to reach for him, pull him close. “Cowboy,” he gets out, bloody hands cupping his jaw and leaving smears across pale skin. “Cowboy. Napoleon.” He can’t seem to say anything else. Even those words he chokes on, chokes until his breath rasps in his throat and his eyes water.

“It’s okay, Peril,” Napoleon says softly. “Illya, love, it’s okay. It’s done, it’s over. That’s enough.”

Illya can’t help but clutch at Napoleon, pulling him closer. He tucks his head into the crook of Napoleon’s neck, breathing in that scent he recognises, even under the metal tang of blood. “I’m sorry,” he says, choking on the words. “Napoleon. Please.”

He feels a hand smooth down his back, a warm weight against him that is achingly familiar. Napoleon presses a soft kiss against his cheek, his breath ghosting across the nape of Illya’s neck as he pulls him closer. “It’s okay, Illya,” he murmurs, the words vibrating through Illya where Napoleon’s head rests on his shoulder, down to reach his bones and everything that has been carved there.

He’s missed this, more than he can almost bear. And it’s that thought that breaks the shreds of control he’d been clinging onto ever since waking in Medical, ever since seeing the twisted face that didn’t look anything like the young man he’d once known. A sob forces its way from his lips, and then another. Dimly he’s aware of Gaby approaching them, of medics making their way into the gallery, agents swarming around them, but he can’t find any energy to even look at them. He hides his face in the crook of Napoleon’s neck, and he cries. He doesn’t know what else he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...sorry.
> 
> There will be a couple more chapters after this, as there's still a little more to know, but you'll have to wait until next weekend to find out how (and if) this is going to wrap up.
> 
> Hope everyone has a great holidays!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has had a good holidays and is enjoying the new year! Sorry for this chapter being a little late, I've had somewhat of a wobble over the past few days and just didn't have the mental energy to get this done until now. I'm feeling better now, and I'm sure I will feel even better when I see how much I've wrecked you all with this story in the comments.

Someone clears the worst of the glass from the gallery floor, and then the paramedics are there, kneeling down beside Illya and Napoleon. Illya doesn’t seem to want to let go, but he’s aware enough to look up when the paramedics start talking to him. Napoleon reaches out, with the hand that isn’t currently clamped to his side to stop the blood from oozing out and onto the floor, and says something to Illya, gently grasping his wrist. It’s enough for Illya to back off slightly, lean back and let a paramedic attach a blood pressure cuff to his arm.

Gaby watches all of this from the other side of the room, agents swarming around her. For a brief moment her feet are all but ready to go to them, to crouch down beside Napoleon and trade witty retorts, to close her hand around Illya’s wrist and let him come back to himself. She’s so close to just going, she can feel her body rock forwards. But then she remembers the agents around her, the ones dragging Vasilyev away, still fighting him as they pull him out of the building. He’s frantic, desperate in a way Gaby has only seen when someone has stared down the barrel of her gun and known there was no way out. People tend to turn to hope at the most useless times, in her experience.

“Make sure Vasilyev doesn’t do anything stupid,” she says to a passing agent, her voice low. “Get him into one of our cells, and for the love of god, don’t let him keep his shoelaces. Drug him if you have to.”

The agent glances at him as he’s finally pulled out of the building and into a waiting van. “You think he would do that?” she asks.

“I think he didn’t have a plan past this point,” Gaby replies. “I’ve seen people do worse with less.” She checks that Illya isn’t listening to her, but he’s singularly devoted to Napoleon right now, leaning over him to brush pieces of glass from his hair as the paramedics bandage the gunshot wound. Gaby can tell, even from across the room, that it’s only a graze. Deep, with enough blood loss to make Napoleon feel woozy, enough to hurt, but nowhere near life threatening.

If it had been, she wouldn’t be standing on the other side of the room to them, no matter what her position dictates.

Illya finally, after what feels like hours, looks up from Napoleon and meets her gaze. “Chop shop girl,” he says. His voice is quiet, but she knows those words so well that she can hear the curl of his accent around them from across the room. She makes her way over, avoiding the worst parts of the shattered glass all over the floor.

“How are you doing?” she asks Napoleon first, crouching down next to him. It gives Illya the time to rub at his face, wiping away the wetness on his cheeks and accidentally smearing blood across his chin.

Napoleon smiles up at her from the backboard that the paramedics have put him on. “Can’t complain, darling,” he says, and he’s so obviously trying to sound anything but exhausted and defeated that Gaby’s eyes prick. He reaches out and squeezes her hand. “I’ll be fine,” he says softly. “Few stitches, little bed rest, and I’ll be as good as new.”

Gaby wants to laugh at the absurdity of Napoleon comforting her. He hasn’t done that for years, not since she was far younger and far more naïve than she could ever be now. She settles for squeezing his hand back, picking a couple of shards of glass away from his bare feet. “It’s all finished now,” she says, glancing up at Illya. He doesn’t look at her, staring at where his fingers are entwined with Napoleon’s, blood smeared across their hands.

“Is he dead?” Napoleon asks, not looking away from Illya as he asks. There are a thousand things that pass between the two of them that she could never hope to understand, but at the least she can taste the defeat in the air that hangs between them. She isn’t quite sure why it is there, but she can guess.

“He isn’t,” Gaby says instead of the various questions and thoughts on her tongue. “He’ll be taken back to UNCLE, held there until I’ve worked out what I want to do with him. Various agencies will fight over him, but I won’t do anything until I’ve run it past you.”

“I don’t care,” Illya mutters. “Don’t let him near me. Don’t keep him in the same building as me.”

Gaby sees when Napoleon squeezes his hand and the tension slowly slides from Illya’s shoulders. “He’s alive,” she says again. “He’ll stay alive whilst he’s under my control. And beyond, if I have any say in it.”

“Good,” Napoleon breathes, letting his head loll back against the gurney. “That’s good.”

“Cowboy?” Illya asks.

“Don’t want you to kill him, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, letting his head loll to one side as he looks up at him. “Don’t want you to have to do that.” Illya’s expression turns into something on the far side of grief, and Napoleon smiles slightly. “I’m fine, Peril,” he murmurs with a huff, letting his head fall into Illya’s hand. His eyes are barely open, his breath a warm puff against Illya’s hand. “I’ll be just fine.”

“We’re ready to move now,” one of the paramedics says. Gaby, if she wasn’t such a damn good spy, would have jumped as she suddenly remembers that they are there. Napoleon’s side is securely bandaged, his shirt all but tatters around it, and various wrappings and purple plastic gloves are scattered amongst the glass still across the floor. “The ambulance is outside.”

Illya gets to his feet as they load Napoleon onto a gurney and take him across the room, glass crunching beneath the wheels. There’s a quiet groan on his lips that Gaby suspects she only hears because Illya is exhausted, running on the very last of his energy, and because only she can hear him. “Come on,” she says quietly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Go with him.”

Illya stares at her, the thousand-yard stare of the soldier that goes right through her. Gaby nods to herself. “Right,” she says softly. “You’re going to get in the back of the ambulance with Napoleon. You’re going to go straight back to UNCLE headquarters. Both of you are going to Medical, where the doctors are going to assess you as well as Napoleon.” She squeezes his arm. “Take your time, darling. You’ve just got to be there for Napoleon. Nothing else matters right now.”

It will matter, every second of all of this will matter, but it can wait until later. It can wait until the maelstrom has faded from Illya’s face, until he doesn’t walk like he’s bearing the weight of every single thing he’s ever done. Gaby only heard a little of what Alexi said to them, but she heard enough to guess where Illya’s mind has gone, and enough to know for certain that it’s a long, dark rabbit hole he’s staring at.

She doesn’t know what it’s like, for Illya to stand across from someone he once knew, someone he once helped train in a place that threw them into the pits and expected them to walk out again with, if not a smile, then at least a steady trigger finger. She doesn’t have enough of her past to piece together into a person like that to stand across from her. She doesn’t really have someone valuable enough to her that they become every weakness in her bones.

Illya doesn’t speak as she leads him through the building. He stumbles after her, stumbles again when they step outside and the cold air hits them, the sun sinking low behind the London skyline. The tourist traps are miles away from where they are, the skyline nothing more than flats and office buildings. Napoleon is already in the back of the ambulance, barely talking to the paramedics as they get ready to leave, and once Illya sees him Gaby is less leading him and more making sure he doesn’t trip over his own feet in his exhaustion as he heads straight for Napoleon.

Napoleon tries to sit up when he sees him and is promptly forced back down by the paramedic who is attaching a monitor clip to his finger. “Stop it, I’m fine,” he says petulantly. “Peril?”

Illya still looks unsteady, his face an open book compared to his usual stone expression when he’s under pressure, and Gaby can see the thoughts turning in Napoleon’s head, how he sees the same that she does, probably far more, and decides that he’s going to have to be the one to hold the two of them together for now. “Come on, you’re scaring the poor paramedics,” he says, reaching out and gripping Illya’s hand as he climbs into the back of the ambulance. “Do you need them to look at you?”

Illya barely shakes his head, and one of the paramedics scoffs. “You’re getting a check up on the way there whether you like it or not,” she says sharply as she reaches for a blood pressure cuff. “You look like shit.”

“Ah, London’s finest,” Napoleon remarks, a smile on his face that is so transparent that it’s painful for Gaby to watch. “Good to know you still don’t take any crap from us.” He squeezes Illya’s hand again. “Let them check you over, Peril. You might as well whilst we're sitting here.”

“Cowboy,” Illya just says, and he sounds wrecked. Napoleon hears it, he has to hear it in Illya’s voice if Gaby can hear it as well, but he does nothing more than grip Illya’s hand and start talking to the paramedics, asking them about the weirdest things they’ve seen in their jobs. Gaby stays with them until the back doors of the ambulance are shut and it drives away, sirens dull and quiet.

She has a horrible feeling that this is only going to be the beginning for the two of them, and that there is a hell of a lot worse than Alexi waiting for them down the road. Even if they’re only figments lying in wait, she’s seen what damage those sorts of phantoms can do.

0-o-0-o-0

It takes about ten minutes for the ambulance to make it to UNCLE, pulling up in the bay outside the entrance to Medical. The fluorescent lights of the corridors as they head inside flicker in that irritating way they’ve always done, and the headache that Illya has had ever since first waking up tied to that chair intensifies as he stares at them. Nobody, in all the years he’s been here and since he left, has ever thought to fix the damn lights. Everyone was always too busy to think about flickering lights, to put in the time to fix the sticky lock on one of the supply closets, or the door that always jams in the heat.

Doctors appear and confer with the paramedics over Napoleon’s head, Napoleon interjecting himself into their conversation with a grin Illya knows is fake. He knows what Napoleon is doing, knows that Napoleon has decided to take up some of the slack whilst Illya tries to work his way out of the daze he’s been tipped into. He knows what’s happened, he knows that the foundations he didn’t realise were so unsteady have been knocked from underneath him by Alexi, but he’s powerless to try and shore them up. He doesn’t even know where to start.

He follows Napoleon, because he’s helpless to do anything else, and he tries not to hear Alexi’s voice in his head. Alexi had told him, at the beginning of all this, that he knew their reputations. That he knew how this was going to end. Illya wonders, sitting on the edge of a bed and watching as doctors take the gauze away from Napoleon’s side, if Alexi had known from the beginning that this would end with him begging Illya to kill him.

Doctors fuss over him, insisting on fitting him with an IV for dehydration and to flush the final remnants of those drugs out of his system, and Illya watches with a detached interest as they slip a needle into a vein on the back of his hand. He’s surprised that they can still find one, after the sheer number of times he’s been here.

“Peril?” Napoleon asks quietly, and Illya glances up out of reflex. He can hear the pain and exhaustion starting to etch through the façade Napoleon has put over his voice, and he longs to just get up and hold Napoleon close, but his legs have no energy to move. “You okay there?”

“It’s just for dehydration,” one of the doctors says, glancing up from flushing out the bullet graze in Napoleon’s side. “And to counteract any lingering effects of the drug used to subdue you. He needs to rest, needs to let his ribs heal, but he’ll be fine. So will you, though this will leave a nice scar once it’s healed.”

“I have plenty of those already,” Napoleon points out. “Peril?”

“Cowboy,” Illya replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Alexi crowds his mind in his exhaustion, his face twisted in grief that soured to madness so easily. Illya watches the doctor stitch up the graze on Napoleon’s side, and wonders if he would look like that if he’d lost Napoleon.

He thinks he might have been worse. He thinks he might have burned the world down out of spite, and then let himself burn along with it just for the hell of it.

Maybe he should have killed him. Still there’s a rage burning underneath his skin at Alexi, a familiar one that sets his hands trembling, the needle in the back of his hand clicking slightly against the tubing with the movement. He knew Alexi. He remembered him as a good agent, loyal to Russia, slow to make friends but fiercely protective once he had them. Even with Alexi’s screams in his head now, his face flickers between the young boy, barely an adult, that he first met and a face that is too familiar from looking in the mirror.

Maybe he should have killed him. Maybe he should still kill him now. He knows his way around the building better than most people here, learned nearly all of its secrets over the years he stalked though these corridors. He could get into the cells here easily enough, and from there he has a thousand ways carved into his bones, hundreds of methods with his hands alone. He doesn’t think it would be too difficult.

Across from him Napoleon hisses as he sits up, the doctor starting to cover his side with gauze, and everything rushes back to him. His hands tremble again, but the rage has been washed away by a cold horror coloured with shame. He would have killed him. He would have killed Alexi without hesitating, without regret.

He’s always known he would burn the world down for Napoleon, but he’s never thought that there might be a line somewhere amongst all that rage, a line he didn’t realise was so important until he nearly stepped over it without thinking. Still, he can feel some part of him that is clamouring for him to do so, to pick up a weapon and find Alexi, to damn the consequences because Napoleon is _his_ , and nobody gets to take that away from him.

“Leave us for a minute,” Napoleon says to the doctor. Illya barely hears him, is barely aware of the doctor getting up with a sigh and a roll of her eyes. He’s staring at the tremble of his hands until Napoleon limps to his side and covers them with his own hands. “What are you thinking, Peril?” he asks, and his voice is exhausted but also unspeakably tender. Someone like him doesn’t deserve that tenderness.

“I would have killed him,” he says quietly, the words falling from his lips without his permission. “Why didn’t you want me to kill him?”

Napoleon stays silent for a long moment, holding onto Illya’s trembling hands. “Because,” he says eventually. “Because you didn’t deserve this. I didn’t want you to do that to yourself after all of this.” He grips Illya’s hands, tight to the point of painful. “If you’d tried to kill him for me, and he’d hurt you again, I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself for that.”

“I would have killed him,” Illya gets out again. “I still could.”

“Oh, Peril,” Napoleon says quietly. He lets his head fall to the crook of Illya’s neck. “You don’t have to.”

Illya has to blink suddenly. “I don’t know what to do,” he says. “Cowboy. What do we do now?”

Napoleon sighs. “I don’t know, Peril,” he murmurs into the crook of Illya’s neck. “I don’t know either.”

Illya looks down at him, at the curve of his neck, the line of his jaw. It must be hurting him to sit like this, tucked into Illya’s side, but Napoleon says nothing. “I nearly killed him,” he says. “I nearly…I didn’t even _think_. I knew a hundred ways to kill him just in that room, more now that he’s here in this building. I could, I could do it easily. Some of me thinks I should. He _hurt_ you, Napoleon. He hurt you and I can’t forgive that.”

Some small part of him, where Russia and the SVR have been so deeply engraved that they will never leave, wants to leave Alexi alive like he should be doing, like he was trained to do. But the most of him, the part that belongs to Napoleon and nobody else, just wants him dead. Napoleon is everything to him, far more important than himself.

He’d be willing to die for Napoleon, always has been. Napoleon knows it too. But Illya doesn’t know if Napoleon is aware of how many lines he’d cross before that, of how much of the world he’d be willing to burn in his name. He wonders whether Napoleon could love someone like that, and whether it matters. He’d surely be dead if that were to happen, and then Illya would just have to live with the crushing guilt of betraying every moment of his memory instead.

He would deserve it, if he went that far. He would deserve it, but even knowing that he thinks he’d be powerless to stop himself. Alexi was the same as him, or close enough for it to matter.

“You don’t have to forgive him for it, Peril,” Napoleon says slowly, and Illya wades slowly back to the present. “You just…Christ, Illya, I don’t know. You just don’t have to kill him.”

“Did you?” Illya asks. “When he took me, did you want to kill him?”

“I wanted to find _you_ ,” Napoleon replies. “At that point, we had no idea who he was, who had taken you, and it’s harder to hate someone when you don’t know who they are. All I wanted was you back.” He sighs, a breath of air across Illya’s collarbone. “I got you back. That’s what matters. That’s all that ever matters.”

It isn’t, and they both know it, but Illya doesn’t have the energy to even talk right now. He puts an arm around Napoleon, ignoring the stabbing pain from fractured ribs, and holds him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll only be a couple more chapters now before the end of this story- there will be a sequel to fix all of this upheaval, and it is being written right now, but it is somewhat slow going and might take me a while. I'm always available either on my tumblr theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com, or in the comments of any of my fics.
> 
> It's 2019 now, and whilst 2018 was a shitshow in many ways, there are no promises that 2019 will magically fix everything going wrong in the world right now. It's exhausting, watching the world seemingly fall to pieces. I know it is. But the truth of humanity is compassion, in the end- no matter how many bullies are out there, they are vastly outnumbered by the people who will help you back to your feet. I promise you that.
> 
> So please, be kind, fight hard for everyone else fighting around you until there's no breath left in your body, and then get back up and keep fighting. Even if that's just getting out of bed every day and meeting the world head on.
> 
> _I am not just tired._  
>  I am angry.  
> I am furious.  
> I have been running a marathon  
> And I want to stop.  
> I want to rest.  
> But goddamn it, there is a fight in my bones  
> Given to me by everyone who has come before  
> And if you keep trying to undermine  
> My existence  
> I will keep running.  
> I promise you that.  
> (By me) 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SORRY. Very sorry. I honestly meant to publish last weekend or at the beginning of this week...and I just didn't. Sorry.
> 
> This is the final big chapter of this story! There will be an epilogue following (of sorts), and then, as I have mentioned before, there is a sequel in the works to this story, titled The Death of the Author. About halfway through writing this story I realised there was no way I could tie off all the narrative threads within this story, unless it got super super long, and that I needed a second story to fix all the things I'd messed up in this story. I'm working on it right now- it's a little slow going! I'm always pulling the strings behind the story, to build the narrative, but this one in particular is tricky to fully understand and keep together in my head. There's a lot of meta going on in the notes for this sequel.
> 
> Also, I'm very pleased that a few people in the comments said how they had started to feel a little sympathetic to Alexi in the last chapter- at the beginnings of this story, he'd mostly been a regular villain, but around the point that I realised Alexi was a much more complicated character than even I'd first realised, and I started writing him as such. He will appear again in the sequel.

“We fucked this one up,” Napoleon murmurs after a long few minutes of silence. He can’t even begin to put into words how much they screwed this up, the long, bloody path that put them in this position. If he’d been smarter, maybe he should have seen this coming. He’s meant to be intelligent, meant to be the one who can think metaphysically and all that. He knew they were talked about in intelligence agencies, knew well enough the types of rumours that circulated, and yet he’d never realised until Alexi screamed it at him just what people might be listening to.

He had never even thought about it. He’d never realised that people might have listened to the frankly insane stories of their missions and taken something from it. He’d never realised he would be responsible for people losing their lives over it.

“We did this,” he mutters into Illya’s shoulder, afraid that if he speaks the words too loud then they will take hold, like they haven’t done so already. Illya smooths his hand down Napoleon’s back, ghosting over the edge of the taped gauze at his side.

A thought occurs to Napoleon, and he huffs a bitter laugh. “I did this,” he murmurs. “I was always the one with the hare-brained schemes, the stupid ideas that we somehow pulled off. You just followed me and shot anyone who tried to shoot me.”

“It was more complicated than that, Cowboy,” Illya says, his voice a low rumble in his chest. He doesn’t sound like he’s even convinced himself.

“Everything is always more damn complicated,” Napoleon says with a grimace. He ducks his head, pressing it into Illya’s shoulder. “And we always go on like nothing has even happened. Like people aren’t dead because of us. Because of me. I’m the one who always came up with the fucking ideas.”

“I never stopped you,” Illya just says.

Napoleon wants to tell him that he did, because he remembers all the times Illya had objected to another idiotic plan that shouldn’t have had a hope in hell of succeeding, but when he thinks about those times, he doesn’t think he ever managed to persuade him to not go through with it. Almost every time, Napoleon was the one to persuade Illya to join in on the plan.

He forces himself to breathe, to listen to the thud of Illya’s heart. He can barely believe that it’s only been about two days since Alexi first took Illya, since this all started. It feels like it’s been weeks.

“How did you find me, in the end?” he murmurs against Illya’s shoulder. “I guessed Alexi left breadcrumbs of sorts? Gaby pulled strings?”

Illya hums. “Sort of,” he replies. “Blood on my watch that you found matched Alexi’s in CIA database, Sanders came here to try and put pressure on Gaby, get his hands on Alexi. He is how we found out it was Alexi, and from there, I could get some information off old…contacts.” He hesitates again. “I made a deal with Oleg. He gave us information we needed to get him, and I promised him a favour.”

Napoleon slowly sits up. “Tell me you weren’t that stupid,” he says. “Tell me you didn’t make a deal with your former handler that gave him free reign to make you do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and puts you right back in that fucking awful place you used to be in.”

The way that Illya glances away, the line of tension across his shoulders, is the only answer Napoleon needs. “I had to do something,” he says defensively. “It was our only option left.”

“Bullshit,” Napoleon spits. “Gaby runs this entire place, we have contacts all around the world, and you called the man who put you through hell, what, twelve hours after we swapped places? Surely once you knew what Alexi was doing you knew he wouldn’t kill me, had some plan that needed both of us there at the end? You must have figured that one out!”

Illya glares at him. “You do not get to tell me what I should have done,” he snaps back. “You were _gone_. Alexi had taken you, the agent I’d once helped to train! I would have done anything, given up anything, to get you back.”

“You should have known I wouldn’t have wanted you to sell yourself to Oleg,” Napoleon says sharply. “He breaks people, he broke Alexi and he’s come damn close, sometimes, to getting you as well. You’re never going back to him.”

“I gave him my word. I won’t back out on a promise, not even to him.” Illya pushes himself to his feet suddenly, and the cold air leeches into the space that he leaves beside Napoleon. “I would have killed him, Napoleon. I would have killed Alexi, murdered him just like he was going to do to us. You stopped me. He wouldn’t have.”

“So what, Oleg suits you?” Napoleon says scathingly. “Understands you? Bullshit, and fuck you for even thinking that I stopped you killing Alexi out of some sort of misguided pity or whatever the hell you think it was. I love you, and I didn’t want you to have more fucking fodder for your nightmares. That’s not pity. That’s me being your goddamn husband.”

“That’s what I was doing!” Illya shouts suddenly, his voice breaking. “That’s what I was being! I was trying to work out strategy and trying to get contacts to talk and trying not to pass out from the drugs he’d given me, but above all of that I was trying to be your husband. You are more important to me than anything, more important than myself. I will do anything, was willing to do anything, to get you back.” He stares Napoleon down. “You would have done the same if you’d been in my position.”

Napoleon stares at him, at the husband he’d nearly lost today, and something within him crumbles to dust. A breath catches in his throat, followed by another, and then they’re coming in shuddering gasps. He moves and his entire side flares with pain, skittering out from the stitches in his skin and crawling across his body.

In between one gasping breath and the next, Illya is beside him again. Strong arms wrap around him, tugging him forwards until his head is resting on Illya’s chest. “I’m sorry,” Illya murmurs as he holds him close. “I’m sorry.”

Napoleon can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears, the sobs being ripped from his lips. “I didn’t,” he gasps between sobs. “I didn’t do the same.”

“What are you talking about?” Illya asks, but Napoleon shakes his head and just cries harder into the shoulder of Illya’s shirt, still dusty and stained as he buries his fingers in it, twisting the fabric around his hands until he has something to clutch onto.

He’d done nothing. Illya had been taken and instead of making bargains, instead of giving up anything he could to get him back, to do anything to help, he’d just sat there. He’d sat in an empty stairwell, getting dust all over his trousers, and he’d done nothing. Paralysis isn’t the right word for it. He’d been able to move for every second of it, could have easily stood up and done something. Hell, he wouldn’t have had to even get to his feet. He could have called someone from right there in that dusty emergency stairwell. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t done anything.

He knows what they’re expected to do now. They’re meant to go back to their normal everyday lives, the townhouse in Marylebone, coffee and toast in the mornings and him cooking in the evenings, music playing quietly in the kitchen as Illya sets up a chess game. He’ll go back to the Institute, bury himself in his work, try and finish that chapter of his journal article that keeps eluding him. He’ll walk the dog and kiss Illya goodbye in the mornings, spend his weekends marking papers and wandering around London’s galleries with Illya’s hand in his.

It sounds perfect. It was perfect, before Alexi revealed the wool they’d so willingly pulled over their eyes, everything that they’d been missing. Napoleon clutches onto Illya’s tattered shirt as hard as he can, to the point that he’s sure he hears a seam rip. He doesn’t deserve perfect. He doesn’t deserve any of that, he’s not good enough for any of it. His husband was taken from him, and he sat there. Illya was hurt and he let it happen.

People are dead because of him, and the ghosts have never been as visible as they are now.

He runs out of feeling after a while, numbness slipping in to take its place. They’re lying on the bed now, Illya curled around him, and Napoleon honestly can’t remember Illya pulling him down to lie down next to him. He slowly loosens his grip on Illya’s shirt, flexing his fingers and watching them, as if he can see the pins and needles that flare up through the joints. “Cowboy?” Illya asks quietly. His voice is barely audible, but Napoleon would know the shape of those words anywhere, knows the way Illya’s lips form around them. He could trace them in the dark.

“Peril,” he replies, the word coming so easily from his tongue.

He has no idea how many times he’s said that word over the years. Thousands, if not more. It’s been said in every way possible, shouted in annoyance at Illya’s stubbornness, whispered across the darkness in the middle of the night when secrets fall from tongues without permission. He’s heard Illya’s response thousands of times more, snapped in annoyance with a roll of his eyes at another of his ridiculous plans, murmured in the breath between their lips. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin have become dangerous, have lead people to their deaths, but maybe Cowboy and Peril might be able to hang on a little longer.

Maybe he’s just deluding himself. He knows how this works. He and Illya will go home and pretend like everything hasn’t just fallen to pieces around them, because he doesn’t want to hurt Illya, and Illya would do anything but hurt him. And then it will all fall to pieces anyway, because he doesn’t deserve this life, he hasn’t done enough to be worthy of keeping it.

“What are we going to do now?” he asks Illya, turning his head into Illya’s chest, inhaling that familiar scent like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “What do we do from here?”

Illya sighs, his breath stirring through Napoleon’s messed hair. “We do our best,” he replies, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

Napoleon just hides his face further in Illya’s chest. “Peril,” he says again, the word so familiar on his lips. “I don’t think it’s going to be enough.”

0-o-0-o-0

A familiar figure comes to stand by her shoulder, that familiar smell of tweed and tea enough for a little of the tension to slide from her shoulders. Even though she’s the Director now, though this entire place is hers, she thinks there will always be a part of her that longs to defer to Waverly. It’s why she doesn’t invite him round often. For his part, he’s mostly content in his retirement, only interfering with the British government when he feels like it needs nudging back on track.

This, apparently, was big enough for him to hear of it without her saying anything.

“Physically, they look better than I was expecting,” Waverly remarks. He rocks forwards on his heels, hands in his pockets. “I suppose that’s typical of them.”

“Illya was beaten about,” Gaby replies. “And thrown out of a moving car, actually. He’s got some fractured ribs and a bunch of small lacerations, courtesy of Vasilyev.” She can still remember the camera footage of the van swerving outside UNCLE’s entrance, Illya’s limp body being flung out of the side door and rolling across the road. “Napoleon has a bullet graze in his side, and is also generally bruised and beaten. But physically, they’ll both be fine.”

Waverly hums. “That’s not the worst of the damage, though,” he says quietly. Gaby arches a brow, and a small smile flits across his lips. “I may be retired, but I’m not deaf. Something like this, I hear about it almost as soon as it happens. Old chums, mostly, you know how it is.” He shakes his head. “It’s an awful business. Quite dreadful.”

Gaby just nods. “I always knew that people tried to emulate them,” she says. “The rumours of their missions always used to spread thick and fast, and I knew people listened. Hell, half of their reputation was built on that, if you know what I mean. They’d- _we_ would pull off something stupid, and the story would spread like one massive game of whispers. People would believe it, and the next story that came along would get embellished a little more, until it all snowballed. You wouldn’t believe some of the things people ask me about.”

“Yes, I never did believe what I heard about Florida,” Waverly remarks. “I know the mission report was missing a lot of detail, but that rumour that went around about the crocodiles was just terrible.”

“No, those were alligators,” Gaby corrects him absent-mindedly. “And that one was actually true.” Florida had been a weird mission for them. Even Napoleon, normally quick enough to defend his country, even if only in jest, had been confused.

Waverly just nods, though she can see the tick in his eyebrow that means he’s at least a little surprised. “Vasilyev is alive, then?” he asks. Gaby nods. “I suppose that the CIA and SVR are already donning gloves and getting ready to fight it out over him. What are you going to do with him?”

“MI6 are weighing in,” Gaby adds. “Though mostly because we carried out multiple operations in what they consider as their city without asking them first, and the double-ohs always hate being left out like that.”

“Oh yes, I can think of a couple who would have loved to join in,” Waverly says dryly. “Always been a little too pyromaniac for my tastes. You would have had a building or two burning by now if they’d been involved, at least.”

Gaby huffs a laugh. “Believe me, I know,” she replies. “The CIA are clamouring for him, demanding that we hand Vasilyev over because of the _special relationship_ our countries have. They forget we’re an international agency, though I suppose that’s what we get for being based in London. And then of course Russia is demanding him back, seeing as it’s their agent that went rogue.”

“And what are you going to do?” Waverly asks.

Gaby considers it, cocking her head to one side. “He’s not going to the Americans, that’s for sure,” she says. “I don’t need to fuel any more of their bullshit. And I don’t want to keep him here, not so close to Illya.” Waverly gives her a questioning look, and she shakes her head. “He nearly killed him in that gallery, and he knows his way around this place better than almost anyone. I don’t like having Vasilyev held here whilst Illya is so…susceptible.”

Waverly hums. “I doubt he would cross you in that, or that Solo would let him,” he remarks. “But I cannot be sure.”

“Exactly,” Gaby points out. “I think I’ll let his own people take him. Shore up international relationships and everything, and it’s always good to have Oleg owe me a favour as big as this.” She sighs. “Besides, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him.”

“Be careful, my dear,” Waverly says quietly.

Gaby tosses her hair back from her face. “Believe me, I’ve learned that one,” she murmurs. “But I’ve heard some of what agents like him, like Illya, endured back in the SVR. The fact that Illya got away from it could almost be considered a miracle, if you’re inclined to believe in such things.”

Waverly’s quiet chuckle is answer enough. Anyone in the game long enough tends to have a fairly dim view of things like miracles.

“I don’t know a lot of the facts,” she admits. “I don’t really know why he did this, though I can make some fairly educated guesses. But he’s a person, like all of us, and he’s not too far from what some of us could become if certain things were to happen in the right order, at the right time.” She studies the two figures asleep on the bed. “We all deserve a little mercy at times,” she murmurs. “At least if the SVR take him back, he might get some sort of closure.”

“Maybe,” Waverly just offers. He peers through the window, at Napoleon and Illya. “They’ll take it hard, I presume?” he asks. “What Vasilyev did? Why he did it?”

Gaby just nods, and watches Napoleon and Illya through the window of the hospital door. They’re asleep, curled up around each other and barely fitting on one of the hospital beds. Even from where she is, she can see the way Napoleon’s hands are fisted in Illya’s shirt, how Illya has curved around him. They look exhausted. “I don’t know if there’s anything I can say to them, to convince them that this isn’t their fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Waverly asks mildly.

“Of course it damn well isn’t,” Gaby snaps, surprising herself with the heat in her voice. “Alexi was the one who came for them. He’s the one that baited them, set all this up to try and destroy them. He’s the one who went mad, for whatever damn reason, and decided that Napoleon and Illya were to blame.” She stops, taking a breath. “They are meant to be retired. They’re meant to be out of this damn game.”

“Oh, aren’t we all,” Waverly replies with a quiet huff of a laugh. “But you know how strong a hold this awful game has on us, my dear. You’ll find out about it, if you ever decide to turn your back on it. She’s a fickle mistress, and she doesn’t like rejection.” He hums, watching Napoleon and Illya hold onto each other even in sleep. “It was their stories, their legends, that led to all of this, no matter how twisted they became in the retellings. It’s up to them to decide whether they bear responsibility for the origins of these stories, and whether that makes them responsible for the people who have died trying to follow them.”

“They’ll work it out,” Gaby says, but the words fall hollow and flat on her lips. She sighs softly, pushing her hair back from her face again. “I really hope they work it out. They can’t have come all this way for this to stop them.”

“Well, that’s rather up to them,” Waverly says mildly. “I would say that if anyone can come out of the other side of all this mostly intact, it would be Solo and Kuryakin, but then I feel that is somewhat feeding into the narrative that got us in this mess in the first place.”

“How come such stories never made their way around about you?” Gaby asks, without really meaning to. Waverly arches a brow, and she shrugs. “You are just as famous in this game, and yet I’ve never heard as much rumour and gossip as I have about them.”

“Because I’m British, and I’m old,” Waverly replies dryly. “The stories don’t take hold in the same way, not when I spent most of my time manipulating governments over a cup of tea and maybe a biscuit or two, and they spent most of their time blowing things up.” He watches them through the window, as Napoleon shifts restlessly and Illya rolls closer to him, an arm pulling Napoleon close in his sleep.

“Theirs is the sort of tale that takes hold,” he says eventually, his voice quiet. “We’re a gossipy bunch by nature, we love a good action story, but what we really want to know is if there’s something on the other side of this, even if we’re never going to get there ourselves. Their story ends happily. People like to hear that. They like to imagine they could have someone like these two have each other, whether it’s someone to pull them out of the fire or someone to love them as fiercely as these two love each other. They want to know it’s possible, so they tell the stories to try and convince themselves.”

“Is it that simple?” Gaby asks. “We all just want to be happy, in the end?”

Waverly huffs a laugh. “No, it never is,” he replies. “But it’s a nice thought. Solo and Kuryakin are somewhat unique, and that makes them all the more intriguing. Spies have fallen in love before, it’s more common than you might think, but never like this. Not that I’ve seen, anyway.”

Gaby stares through the window, not really seeing anything. She meant what she said to Illya, what feels like weeks ago. She can’t imagine how terrifying it would be to love someone else that fiercely and completely. She can’t help but wonder whether that might tear them apart, in the end, the final straw on the back of the years of horrors they’ve somehow managed to weather.

“All they’ve been through,” Waverly remarks. “All they’ve seen, and this is what brings them low.” He laughs quietly to himself, and Gaby arches a brow.

“What, does that make them weak?” she asks sharply.

Waverly looks surprised. “My dear, it’s the complete opposite,” he replies. “It makes them human. That’s the best thing they can have on their side, if they want to come out of the other side of this game.”

Gaby shakes her head. Sometimes, she can’t help but think that they’re all children, playing at games they don’t understand and making them bloody because they don’t know how else to play. “I’ll let you know how this unfolds,” she says, instead of everything else crowding her tongue. Waverly isn’t her boss anymore. She doesn’t have to explain herself to him.

Waverly just nods. “I’ll keep an eye out myself, just in case,” he replies. “Good day, Director Teller.”

He turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, that familiar figure that looks like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Gaby watches until he turns a corner and is out of sight, and then turns back to the window and the two men tangled together on the bed on the other side of the glass. She stays there for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented on this story. Things seem a little bleak with Napoleon and Illya right now, even though they're both physically safe from Alexi- this is why I need the sequel. The sorts of things they're blaming themselves for can't be fixed with a couple of scenes, and there are more bumps down the road ahead for them.
> 
> When Gaby and Waverly mention the double-ohs who would have loved to join in, there are a specific two that I had in mind. In some future story, maybe they'll turn up for a cameo or two...


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! This is the epilogue (that I meant to put up on the weekend but forgot, sorry!). Thank you so so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, all those people who have been reading my stories for so long and are still here, letting me know how much I've crushed their hearts in the comments! You all mean so much to me, and I cannot stress how much I really mean that- some days when I'm feeling a little low, I see your comments and they make me feel so much better.
> 
> Somedrunkpirate, you're a brilliant friend and a terrible person for making me watch critical role and dropping me straight into that hole. Thanks to listening to me rant and vent about plotholes until I've talked my way out of them and gone back to the story. Farisya, you're a wonderful person, I still haven't forgotten that you spammed my tumblr with tmfu back when I was feeling low, and I'm still grateful for that. Plan B, gastropods, JensenAckles13, Prinkipas, Hsg, everyone who has come back chapter after chapter to leave a comment and let me know how much they're enjoying this story, thank you so much.

He has a split second of warning, enough to get in front of Napoleon and protect the more vulnerable of the two of them, before a shaggy grey blur collides with his legs. Laika jumps up at him, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she skitters around in the hallway entrance in front of them. “Down,” Illya says without thinking about it, putting a hand out. Laika pushes her head into his hand, tail wagging so hard that her hind legs almost go from under her.

“Laika, come back here you little-” Mark hurries around the corner, and skids abruptly to a stop when he sees Illya and Napoleon in the hallway. “Oh, thank god,” he says. “Welcome home.”

Before Illya even takes another step Mark rushes forwards, wrapping arms around him. “You utter bastards,” he mutters as he embraces Illya, and then Napoleon. “Are you both okay?”

“Beaten and bruised, not much more,” Napoleon says wryly. “Not as bad as we’ve had it before.” He dumps the go bag that he’d grabbed from under their bed when he’d left, what feels like weeks ago, down by his feet as Mark pulls back. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Mark replies. He heads back into the house. Illya follows him, because he knows that’s what he’s meant to do. He’s not quite sure whether it’s what he wants to do, though. Part of him wants to just go to sleep, sleep through everything and wake up the other side where this is all dealt with and they can live a normal life. But there’s a quiet voice, one that he’s been trying to steadfastly ignore ever since first hearing Alexi’s name in all of this, that suggests a plane ticket, a warm coat and a duffel bag, heading back east to cold and snow and what was carved into his bones.

He might as well. Alexi may have been mad with grief, desperate in a way Illya doesn’t like to think about too much, but he wasn’t lying.

There are two other agents in the kitchen, who jump to their feet as soon as Illya walks in, Laika still dancing around his feet in excitement. “Sir,” one of them says. He looks relieved and nervous and wary all at the same time, and is young enough to make Illya feel old.

“Sit down, kid,” Napoleon says, brushing past Illya as he heads into the kitchen. “House still standing?”

“Uh- yes, Sir,” the agent says, sitting down slowly. “Nothing happened here. Your dog is a bit…frustrated at not being allowed out much, though.”

“They wouldn’t let me take her for a walk,” Mark says from behind. He puts Napoleon’s bag on the sofa. “Said it was too dangerous until the threat had been neutralised, so she’s been a bit mad. But it’s all over now, right? Your Director called and said it’s all finished.”

“Yeah, it’s over,” Napoleon says quietly. Illya doesn’t think anyone but himself notices the exhaustion in his voice. “Sorry you got caught up in all this, Mark.”

Mark shrugs. “All I got was a knock on the head,” he points out. “Not like I’ve had too hard a time of it.” He glances between the two of them, that shrewd look on his face reminding Illya that him and Napoleon aren’t the only ones in the room who can actually read someone. “We should get going, then,” he says. “Come on, Agent Bobs. Let’s leave these two to get some sleep.”

One of the agents rolls his eyes. “You know our names, just use them,” he mutters. “It’s not like we haven’t been staying in this bloody house with you for the past two days.”

“Don’t worry, I made them sleep on the sofa in shifts,” Mark says to Illya with a wink. “I took your guest room, seeing as somebody needed to get the high ground, and the room has a decent view for a sniper rifle. We’ve barely touched anything, just stayed here to make sure he wasn’t going to come for it or anything here. We even stocked up your fridge for you.” He gives the other two agents a look. “Let’s get moving, give them back their house.”

Of course, it’s not as simple as that. There are things to be packed and debriefs to be rushed through as quickly as possible, a dog constantly tripping them up from under their feet. Illya has half a mind to just grab the agents and throw them out the front door, but they haven’t actually done anything wrong. They’re just doing their jobs, just doing what Gaby told them to do and protecting him and Napoleon how they can. He watches them from where he sits at the kitchen table, half expecting them to turn to him at any moment with annoyance and disgust, realising what he really is, instead of this poorly concealed awe he can see when they glance at him out of the corner of his eyes.

Napoleon has seemingly crashed on the couch as soon as it was cleared of the blanket the agents had been using, and is either asleep or pretending to be so the agents don’t pester him. Finally, though, they’re out the door and gone, the car pulling away and disappearing down the street.

Mark hangs around for a second longer, loitering in the living room doorway. “Are you two okay?” he asks quietly. “Now Agent Dumb and Dumber are gone, I thought I’d ask. See if there’s anything you need me to do.”

Illya rubs at his face. “We’ll be fine,” he says quietly, and it sounds weak even to his own ears. Mark knows it as well, because he pulls a sympathetic face.

“Yeah, I know you will,” he says. “Just give me a call if there’s anything I can do, okay? I’m in town for a good few months now.” He grabs his bag off the floor, slinging it over his shoulder. “We’ll get drinks in a few days, once you’re both feeling a bit better. Fill me in on everything that’s happened.”

“I’m sorry for getting you involved in this,” Illya says, because he feels he has to. “I didn’t want…I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“Yeah, that’s always the way it is,” Mark says with a shrug. “I’m fine, Illya. I was more worried about the two of you, but you seem to have managed to come out mostly unscathed.”

Illya looks over at Napoleon, a small frown on his face even as he sleeps, holding himself at an awkward angle to take the pressure off his side. He remembers the way he’d clutched at his shirt, back in Medical, the shudders that had run through his body. He remembers the exhaustion that had sunk into his bones, right from when Alexi first set those doubts there, the one that is still lurking somewhere and waiting for the right chance to strike. “We’ll see,” he just says. “Thank you, Mark.”

“No problem,” Mark replies. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” He shoulders his bag and ruffles Laika’s ears in goodbye, but then the door is shutting behind him and they’re alone. Napoleon shifts uneasily on the couch.

Illya isn’t sure how long he sits there, only that his ribs start protesting it about a quarter of the way in. He could move, if he wanted to. He’s sure he could. He just can’t seem to get there. It isn’t until Napoleon wakes up, rolling over on the couch and then hissing in pain when it pulls on the bullet graze, that his legs decide to listen to him. He walks over to Napoleon, just as Napoleon gets to his feet and heads straight to him.

They meet in the middle. Illya’s ribs hurt and he can see the pain etching Napoleon’s face, but Illya still reaches for him, and Napoleon draws him in. “Love you, Peril,” he murmurs, tucking his head into the crook of Illya’s neck. Illya rests his cheek against the top of Napoleon’s head, just breathing him in.

“I love you too, Cowboy,” he says softly. “More than anything.”

It’s a long time before they pull apart. Illya pretends not to see Napoleon rubbing at his face, just as Napoleon pretends not to notice the tremble in Illya’s hands. “We’re going to be okay, Cowboy,” he says, and Napoleon nods, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. They both pretend they believe it.

There’s so much more that he wants to say, the bare forms of words crowding his tongue, but he can’t find their shapes. They keep slipping away from him, and with only a brief struggle he lets them disappear. He doesn’t know what would happen if he spoke them. From the look on Napoleon’s face, the face that he knows so well, better than anyone else in the world, he knows the same. They stand there in silence, Illya’s hands still around Napoleon’s waist, and they don’t say anything.

Eventually, Napoleon sighs, and the moment splinters and falls away. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” he asks. “And then we can take Laika out around the park.”

Illya nods. “Tea sounds good,” he says, reluctantly pulling away from Napoleon’s warmth. He thinks that he’d like nothing more than to curl up next to Napoleon and never let go, let the rest of the world carry on around them with no consequence, but he knows that isn’t possible. He follows Napoleon into the kitchen, pulling out two mugs and the teabags, grabbing the sugar for Napoleon without even thinking about it.

He wants to step outside of everything, just for a moment, just him and Napoleon and nothing else of consequence. He wants it so badly that he can taste it, taste that old grief for an inconsequential life he and Napoleon never had a chance to live. He doesn’t want to think of what he might become if the wrong things happened, of how easy it would be to ignore the line in front of him and walk right over it, in pursuit of something he’s convinced is right in his grief. Alexi’s voice echoes in his head again, and he wishes he didn’t understand the desperation he hears.

The kettle whistles, that old-fashioned sound that made Napoleon buy it in the first place for sentimental reasons, and it jolts Illya out of his thoughts enough to reach for it. Napoleon runs a hand down his back as he reaches around him for the milk, that sort of absent-minded gesture that makes Illya fall in love with him all over again, but everything is coloured in hues of something like grief, something that Illya doesn’t want to try and put a name to for fear of what it might whisper to him.

They take their mugs of tea out onto the patio outside, Laika racing past them into the garden. They stand close together, enough that Illya can feel the solid warmth of Napoleon beside him, but they don’t say anything. Neither can think of anything to say, neither of them has any way to fix this with just a few words. They just stand there, steam rising gently from the mugs clasped in their hands, until it gets dark and they go back inside.

_finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am well aware that there is now a lot that needs tying up from this story! There will be a sequel, entitled Death of the Author, that is in the process of being written, but life is very busy right now and it is taking a while to write, so unfortunately I will be quiet for a while! However, I am always able to be reached in the comments of any story on here, or over on my tumblr, theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com (fair warning, it's a disorganised mess).
> 
> Again, thank you so much. Love you all.


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